


no grave can hold my body down (i'll crawl home to her)

by turtburglar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Characters you love making morally questionable decisions, Cousin Incest, Daenerys is Queen, Dark!Dany, Extremely major Jonsa, Extremely minor Jonerys, F/M, Idiots in Love, Jaime Lannister Lives, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Tyrion does not get to be the hero
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2020-07-10 12:10:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtburglar/pseuds/turtburglar
Summary: Almost a decade after the Great Burning of King's Landing, Daenerys Targaryen is Queen of the Six Kingdoms and Jon Snow - now Aegon Targaryen - sits by her side.Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, is once again called south, this time to help arrange a betrothal between her son and Daenerys' daughter. A betrothal that cannot and will not occur.*or*Jon learns of a secret nine years in the making, setting into motion a dangerous game where both his and Sansa's lives hang in the balance.





	1. If you must fight, fight with yourself and your thoughts in the night

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing and no one.
> 
> Title lyrics from Hozier's "Work Song"
> 
> All chapter title lyrics from Keaton Henson's "You"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of reunions and revelations

Trusting Tyrion had been a mistake. Far from his first, just one among many. Late at night, when Jon lies alone on his unforgiving mattress longing for a sleep that continues to evade him, he wishes his mistakes were material things so that he might build a pyre with them and set himself alight. Would he burn? He flexes his scarred hand. The Stark part of him would, but would the dragon? He doesn’t know.

In those first years after the Great Burning, held hostage in a decimated Red Keep, he would return to the thought eagerly. Over time, however, his mind has worked it like a river stone smoothed by the relentless current; its comfort now solely derived from the familiarity of the ritual. There is no absolution in fire. Nearly a decade at Daenerys’ side has taught him that, if nothing else. There is, however, a type of twisted redemption in the prison he’s built for himself over time. A new bar having been erected at every fork where he’d chosen to follow the wrong path. Misstep after misstep for which countless others had borne the true consequences. Bars that keep him caged in a nest of vipers when he would rather be in a den of wolves. He may be named Aegon Targaryen, but he’s a Northern fool through and through.

The years have been unkind enough to him that he can now acknowledge without shame that he should have killed Daenerys long before the siege on King’s Landing. Notions of honour and duty and oaths mean little when standing in the Dragonpit; when your nose is full of the acrid smell of burning flesh. They do not resonate the way that _Dracarys_ does. While he can’t see anything past the walls of the Red Keep from his apartments, he knows that the charred remains of the city lie beyond them. The repairs are still ongoing, progress having slowed to a trickle by the reallocation of what little gold the Crown has to other more pressing causes over the years. The bodies have been cleared, of course, but the burnt-out husks of buildings stand like mausoleums, a lasting testament to Queen Daenerys’ _mercy_. A reminder of his folly in thinking that he could control the better angels of her nature. One that is as indelible as the scars on his own body.

On that harrowing day, after pulling his own men off innocent men, women, and children alike, any doubts he might have had hardened into convictions. So he’d walked to the keep – to Tyrion – his boots stained with the blood of slain, _surrendered,_ Lannister soldiers, leaving bloodied footprints in the ash. They had unleashed a dragon upon Westeros and they must now right what they’d set wrong. _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword._ Ned Stark may not have sired him, but he had raised him and taught him important truths. Like every Stark man who’d travelled South before him, however, Jon had been unprepared for the game. Maybe if he’d spent less time arguing with Sansa and more time watching her, learning from her, he might have been able to predict that Tyrion would trade Jon’s trust in him for shackles. Jon had been chained, helpless before he’d even had a chance to act, courtesy of Tyrion’s ambition and eye for opportunity. 

He’d had no other option but to sit idly by, waiting for scraps of information, and praying that the worst had not come to pass. He’d gleaned from the whispers of servants that Tyrion had been using his renewed sway over Daenerys to convince her to forgo her wars and instead focus on King’s Landing, on rebuilding and solidifying her rule. At least the rest of Westeros might be spared, he’d thought. But the North had refused to rest _._ As the moons had waxed and waned, word had reached Daenerys that the remaining Starks intended to march south and bring their missing wolf home, so he had offered the only thing he had left. 

_“Marry me,” he’d rasped to her on one of her visits to his prison cell. Daenerys had laughed, a sound he would have once thought of as girlish, but now only sounded hollow._

_“You must be joking,” she’d said, the bells in her hair tinkling gently as she shook her head in disbelief._

_“They come for me because they think I’m here against my will.”_

_“Then let them come,” she’d scoffed. “After all that you have done, you cannot believe that I would set you free.”_

_But Sansa commanded the North. The Vale, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands would likely declare for her. Dorne and the Iron Islands were teetering on the knife’s edge of independence and there was no guarantee that they would fight for Daenerys. The Dothraki were decimated and the Unsullied ever dwindling. It was a war she would lose and so he told her so._

_Her gaze had been almost pitiful. “I have Drogon. That is all the army I need.”_

_“Aye and then you will truly rule a court of bones. Westeros is half ash already, it won’t survive more war. You know that, Tyrion’s been telling you as much since you first locked me away.”_

_She had stilled then, as though waiting for him to continue, and he had thanked the Old Gods and the New that she seemed to hear him._

_“I’m not asking for freedom. I’m suggesting a different kind of imprisonment. Marry me and I will renounce my claim in front of all the Westerosi lords. You can keep me for as long as it pleases you and I can write to my sisters of the marriage, to tell them that I proposed it, that I love you, and that we will found a new Targaryen dynasty together.”_

_He’d managed to continue despite the bile rising in his throat._

_“If I tell them that I know the truth of who I am now – that I am a Targaryen and I have chosen my side – they’ll never come for me.”_

_Daenerys had raised an elegant silver brow. “And why should they believe you?”_

_“Sansa already believes it. She saw my weakness from the start,” he’d all but whispered. The truth of his words had stung worse than any blade. “Give her the North; you’ve no love for it anyway. Give her the North and she won’t ever have cause to rise against you.”_

_Tyrion had emerged from the dark hall, ever in Daenerys’ shadow._

_“He isn’t wrong Your Grace; it is an idea worth considering. We could have peace.”_

_“Peace,” Daenerys had sneered, “at the expense of my sovereignty. Why should I reward Sansa Stark for being the architect of all the difficulties I have faced in Westeros? She has not bled for the realm as I have. She has not sacrificed her children for it! Why should she get to claim half a kingdom that is mine by right?”_

_Jon had been unable to do anything other than clench his sword hand impotently by his side. Daenerys’ arrogant assumption that Sansa had not sacrificed for the North filling him with rage. She knew nothing of the battles his cousin had fought. Still, he had known that his anger would only harm any chance he might have had to convince her, so he had stayed silent._

_Once again, he’d been forced to stand by as Tyrion had whispered in Daenerys’ ear; sweet nothings about how giving Sansa the North would allow them to focus on Dorne’s flagging loyalty. Dorne, which was a much better prospect for trade and had full coffers, unlike the North whose people were struggling just to survive the winter. Let them gain their independence, he’d said, the winter will wither them away and then they’ll come begging on their knees for the Queen’s mercy. Watching Tyrion so easily spin half-truths into facts had made Jon wonder if the man had ever believed in his Queen’s cause or if he’d only ever seen her as a rung on the ladder to power. It had reminded him of the way Littlefinger used to haunt Sansa’s every step and his heart had clenched at the thought of never seeing her, or any of his family, again._

__

_At the time he’d truly believed that the faces of his family, looking on as he dutifully marched south, would be the last memory he’d have of them. He couldn’t have known that within the year he would be back in Winterfell, if only for a short time._

_Daenerys had walked over to where Jon was chained to the floor. Next to her fine gown and perfumed hair, he must have looked as wretched as he felt._

_“And you_ sweethusband _? How do I know that you won’t turn to treason again once my back is turned?”_

_Jon had stared into her eerie purple eyes, trying to communicate his earnestness through gaze alone._

_“I have no care for my own life, but I will never do anything to endanger my family.”_

_“Alright, I agree to your proposal. I will keep you and Sansa can keep the North.” She’d knelt next to him, grabbing his chin in one hand and forcing him to look at her predatory smile. “But know, Aegon, that her heirs will be mine. Any child born to Sansa Stark will be brought to live within my walls, under my rule, and when she dies, they will guard the North as one of the seven kingdoms once again.”_

He’d only agreed to Daenerys’ horrid proposition because he knew Sansa would never marry again, she had told him as much herself. If she never married, she would never have any heirs of her own. Bran would be left to carry on the Stark name and Daenerys hadn’t said a word about Bran’s heirs. He’d thought that he was being clever. Another mistake.

Because Sansa had had an heir. A boy named Robb, the scroll had said, and his heart had swelled. Sansa deserved this joy. She deserved everything after her idiot cousin had almost destroyed any possibility of happiness for her. The scroll had arrived over a year after he’d last left Winterfell and he’d kept it with him since, if only because it had been written in her hand. It was also the last letter he’d received from her. Arya and Bran, however, continue to write and he scans their letters eagerly for any information about little Robb. Even Sam and Davos mention the boy on occasion. They describe how, despite his Stark looks, the boy is all delight and laughter. That he shares not a shred of the Stark seriousness exhibited by his other family members. They write about how they will protect that joy and ensure that he will not be thrust into adulthood early as they were. 

Jon stares guiltily at the locked desk drawer where he keeps these letters. He’s never told any of them about Daenerys’ decree. In truth, he had forgotten. It had seemed for a time that Daenerys had as well. 

She’d once thought herself barren, but after she’d given birth to their daughter, she finally had the heir that she’d so desperately wanted. It had seemed then that there would be no more need to take Sansa’s. Jon remembers the disgust he’d felt when he’d first learned of Daenerys’ condition. He would never have lain with his aunt if he’d thought there could be the possibility of a child. Despite his misgivings, their daughter had turned out hale and hearty and whole and he’d loved her from the very first moment he’d laid eyes on her. Daenerys had informed him that the babe was to be named Alysanne, after the Good Queen and after the daughter of Aegon the Unworthy. The slight had not been lost on him. Alysanne was, by all accounts, Robb’s opposite in both looks and temperament. She looked the spitting image of her mother, but was reserved and solemn like her father. And now, he sighs, they are to be betrothed. 

He sinks further into his chair, still recovering from the abruptness of his conversation with Daenerys.

_“Our daughter will need to marry soon.”_

_Jon hadn’t even fully stepped into her solar and she spoke so swiftly – not even glancing up from her correspondence – that he almost stumbled across the threshold._

_“What? She’s only nine years of age, Daenerys!”_

_“Yes and these things take time,” she had replied, as though speaking to a child. “I was only three and ten when I married. We must make arrangements.”_

_“Why must she marry at all? You became queen with no husband. You could make the same possible for her.”_

_She had sighed and pressed her fingers into the sides of her temples._

_“If Sansa had not been so scornful, I might have preferred marrying her. At least then there would be no need for such relentlessly dull conversations. I suppose that this is why we are both queens and you are only my consort.”_

That had stung. Jon knows he isn’t as adept at the game as his wife or cousin. Nonetheless, Sansa had at least made him feel like he’d had the potential, like he wasn’t a complete failure as King in the North. But then again, his honour and bad judgement let King’s Landing burn, his failed battle plans resulted in the death of thousands at Winterfell, and Sansa hasn’t spoken to him in almost a decade. Perhaps Daenerys is right. Faced with the demons of his past, he certainly feels like an utter fool. Maybe Sansa had only been humouring him all along.

_Daenerys had risen then, silver curls tumbling over her shoulders. “Yes, I became queen by right of birth and by conquest, but even I had to marry you for political gain. Our daughter will be queen after me, but any man she marries will seek to advance his own power by way of her name and her claim. We must ensure that does not happen.”_

_She’d looked to him and bared her teeth, more weapon than smile. “That is why I have decided that Alysanne will marry Robb Stark. Your cousin is hateful, but she is also clever. She wants her son and the North to survive and she will ensure that Robb never has any designs on wresting the throne from our daughter.”_

_“You would ask Sansa to send her only child South? To give up her heir and the North both? You cannot be serious!” He’d gaped at her._

_“She has a brother and sister, does she not?” she’d asked, seeming wholly unbothered by his concerns. “There will be other heirs if she does not have more herself. I trust that she will see this for the peace offering that it is intended as.”_

_“And you would have our daughter marry a bastard?”_

_Daenerys had laughed humourlessly. “You are the last person I would expect to disapprove of a match based on someone’s baseborn status! Besides, he has been legitimized by your Queen in the North. I can think of no better match for Alysanne.”_

_Before he could respond, she had held up a sun-kissed hand. “I will brook no arguments on this, Aegon. It is done. I have already written to Sansa and she will arrive at court in a fortnight hence.”_

He sighs and pushes himself up out of his seat. It’s time to greet his cousin.

******

Sansa stands before him, looking more beautiful than he remembers. Her long copper hair hangs free and a small band of twin direwolves sits atop her head. A gesture of defiance, no doubt. She’s wearing a dress of the palest blue with some kind of beading along the leather bodice that makes it sparkle. Even in the sweltering heat of King’s Landing, the effect brings to mind freshly fallen snow. Made even more luminous by the dress, her blue eyes are like beacons from below the dais. _Sansa_. Jon exhales a breath he’s been holding for over nine years.

She faces Daenerys and drops into a curtsy. “Your Grace,” she says, voice strong and clear. Her dress rustles like the leaves of a weirwood tree when she turns to him and nods. “Prince consort.” She lifts her eyes to his and he eagerly scans her face. She looks so young and it strikes him that she cannot be more than nine and twenty. They’ve lived through so much that he forgets how young they all are. He’s certain that he looks nowhere near as good as she does, though. The years have left him battle-worn and, never having taken to court life, his outfit is plain and black. He knows the lords and ladies at court gossip about his lack of kingly bearing, but he can’t find it in his heart to care. It is so difficult to care about anything these days. For Sansa, however, the years have only served to refine her beauty. Framed by the soft light filtering through the stained glass windows, she looks every inch a queen.

He thinks back to their first reunion at Castle Black and aches to rush to her again, to hold her in his arms and be enveloped by her warmth and the rosemary citrus smell of her hair. He had always found the hot and humid air of King’s Landing to be stifling, especially once summer had set in. Now he wonders if he’s ever actually ever known true warmth since leaving Winterfell.

“We are honoured to receive you at court Lady Stark, especially for such a joyous occasion!” Even now, Daenerys stubbornly refuses to use Sansa’s rightful title.

Sansa holds his gaze for a long moment and then turns back to Daenerys.

“Indeed,” she offers with a smile. “I am grateful for your tremendous hospitality.”

“The journey here was no doubt a long one. I hope you will find your quarters well appointed. I look forward to seeing you at the feast tomorrow.” A dark-eyed and dark-skinned handmaid emerges, as if from thin air, in response to a gesture from Daenerys.

All the Dothraki handmaids that Daenerys had brought with her from Essos now wear the same style of hair and dress that Missandei once did. Tyrion and Jon had shared a troubled look when that had first begun, but Daenerys never grew close to any of them. Preferring to be surrounded by ghosts. Occasionally, he sees Grey Worm stare in shock at the retreating form of one as she slips around a corner. Inevitably, his face crumples in pain when he realizes his mistake. Daenerys has found a way to punish all of them, it seems, although he can no longer remember for what crimes. But she stares after them too and perhaps the only person she seeks to punish is herself. 

“Narri will lead you to your chambers,” Daenerys continues.

Sansa curtsies low, looking for all the world like a woman who is charmed to be here. He had judged her harshly for it before, but now he knows enough to envy her courtesies, her skill at the game. If he’d been better at it – if he’d _listened_ to her – things might have been different. They might not be standing in a city half-risen from ashes.

“Thank you for your kindness, Your Grace.” With that, she turns to leave the throne room. Jon watches her until her hair disappears down the hallway like a flame snuffed out.

******

As they have since he first moved into the apartments above the kitchens, the noises of the servants readying for the day wake him before the light of dawn has even thought to crest over the horizon. He wearily pulls on a pair of fresh breeches and a tunic and heads over to his basin to wash.

There are no guards posted outside his chambers, not anymore, so when a knock sounds on his door, it falls to him alone to answer. Jon can’t imagine who would be seeking an audience with him; he isn’t exactly popular at court and certainly, no one has ever needed him urgently enough to find him this early in the morning. He quickly dries his face and shrugs on a jerkin before answering.

Jaime, in his full Queensguard armour, greets him on the other side. A pale brow raised, he sizes Jon up and clearly finds him wanting. Jon imagines that Jaime must once have walked the halls of the Red Keep looking like a golden god, but now he just looks tired. He wonders if Cersei’s ghost dogs Jaime’s steps the way that Ned and Rickon and Ygritte haunt him. Reminders of failings past. 

Jon himself had once thought Jaime to be a ghost. He’d been shocked half to death to find the man at Sansa’s side when he’d returned again to Winterfell, all those years ago. While they’d never been able to find the body of their prisoner, Tyrion had tearfully presented Daenerys with Jaime’s golden hand, proof that his brother had died an undignified death in the chaos of the siege. She had melted it down into the crown that now sits upon her head. But Tyrion had lied. He’d released his brother, but only once he’d been certain that Cersei had died. Tyrion had done it to save his life, Jaime had said. But Jon knows something of the desperation a man feels when he is in chains, watching everything he holds dear slip through his fingers. He knows that it is no mercy and it’s plain to see now on Jaime’s face. 

Jon had been happy to see the man alive, but Daenerys had been absolutely livid when she eventually learned the truth of Tyrion’s deception. So much so that she’d had him imprisoned in the dungeons for the better part of two moons. Jon would be lying if he denied feeling a perverse sort of pleasure when he visited the man’s cell. But, somehow, Tyrion managed to escape the Dragonpit. Though Daenerys and her Hand despise each other, neither seems to be able to survive without the other. Despite all odds, Jon, Tyrion, and Jaime keep cheating death, though none of them appears entirely sure whether it’s a fate they should be pleased with.

“Your sister, the Queen, would like a word with you in the godswood.”

“My cousin, you mean?”

Jaime smiles and it is not kind. 

“Yes, your cousin.” 

Jon feels like he’s answered a question he didn’t know he was being asked. His frown deepens when no further explanation is given. 

“What would she want with me at this hour and in the godswood, no less?” Even as these skeptical words leave his mouth, he’s lacing up his jerkin, prepared to travel anywhere that Sansa asks.

“I do not presume to know the inner workings of my Queen’s mind,” the knight replies derisively.

“Last we met, you were much less sullen,” Jon remarks.

“Last we met, I was in the North and, if you don’t mind, I’d like to return there before I turn to dust.”

Jon sighs, as Jaime impatiently gestures down the hall with his substitute iron hand.

“Wouldn’t we all.”

******

The godswood rises in front of Jon, looking as incongruous as ever amongst the stench and filth of King’s Landing. Sansa stands at the entrance, conversing quietly with Brienne. Her hair is loose again today, but the circlet is missing. Long strands dance lightly in the gentle breeze, the scant rays of the rising sun making them gleam. She’s wearing a gray silk dress and when he draws nearer he can see that black and white embroidered direwolves dance up the skirts and bodice. Red beads sewn in where their eyes should be. He sucks in a breath. She couldn’t have possibly worn it for him, but he remembers that she wore a very similar gown when they’d last said their goodbyes. It had been heavier than this one, clearly made to withstand the winter cold, but the effect was the same.

“Sansa,” he whispers, soft as a prayer. He’s momentarily blinded by the full force of her brilliant smile. Gone is the inscrutable mask from yesterday in the throne room. Her face is as open and joyful as the Sansa he remembers. A Sansa that a precious few ever got to see. _His_ _Sansa._

In an instant, she flies towards him. His arms open instinctively and she rushes into him with the force of a wave cresting off the coast of Dragonstone. Fitting then that he clutches at her like a drowning man. The scent and feel of her, all of it is exactly as he remembers. In the ashes of his breast, he feels something he long thought dead, an ember, burning brighter. She runs her fingers through his hair, carelessly freeing it of its leather tie. Gods, he could stay here forever, but then his eyes land on Jaime and Brienne, who are exchanging a disapproving look. Unsure of what he’s done to slight them, he regretfully withdraws from the sweetness of Sansa’s embrace.

She places a hand over his heart. “Oh, Jon.” Her voice rings in his ears, a siren song that he had tried in vain to forget. “Or is it Aegon here?” He takes her delicate hand in his rough ones. “Not to you, never to you.” He searches her blue eyes for some confirmation that she has understood his true meaning. Aegon is a lie, a shackle that keeps him prisoner to a duty he’d never wanted, but a punishment he deserves. He will only ever be Jon to his true family, to the people he loves, and neither time nor geography can change that. Sansa gives him a look so pleased and tender that he cradles her face in his palms and presses a kiss to her forehead so that she might not see how affected he is.

“Your hair has gotten long,” she observes.

“Aye, it has.”

“And you look old.”

He laughs. “Aye, I do.”

“And me?”

“You look as beautiful as ever, as I’m sure you well know.” That earns him a coy smile.

“Come, I have a friend that you will want to meet.” She takes his arm and leads him deeper into the godswood, where Brienne and Jaime do not follow. When they reach the heart tree, Jon is bowled over by a blur of white. “Ghost!” He laughs, as the direwolf pins him to the dirt and licks his face. Eventually, he sits up and scratches the fur behind his wolf’s remaining ear. Sansa laughs brightly and his heart feels full to bursting. When he’d departed Winterfell again after his brief return, he had left Ghost with Sansa, as much for her benefit as his own. A direwolf would surely wilt in the festering South and he wanted him as far away from Drogon as possible. He’d also felt better leaving some tangible part of himself with Sansa, telling himself that she wouldn’t forget him as long as Ghost was there. In truth, Ghost has only ever been a dream away. Whenever he’s overcome with longing for Winterfell, he lays his head down and closes his eyes only to open them again as Ghost’s. These strange dreams leave him with only vague memories of warmth, of ravens and the forest, and of copper hair, but it is enough to settle him.

Sansa walks over and helps Jon to rise. Ghost dutifully returns to her side and she sinks her hand into his white fur. “You should see Robb and him. There are no truer friends.” She stares off at the direwolf as he trots after the sound of some small game.

Jon’s eyes snap to hers. Other than to report on his birth, they’ve never spoken about her son. He assumes that Sansa wishes for it to be so and that she has some reason, as she does with everything. Her face, however, is warm and open so he risks a question.

“How is he?”

“Gods, he’s nearly perfect in every way. He has the best of all of us, Jon, truly. He is everything we could have been if life had been a little kinder.”

He knows he could ask, should ask, the question that plagues him and the one he knows he does not want answered. The question of Robb’s father. Jon isn’t sure what would displease him more, that Sansa was dishonoured by some man who disappeared or that she has some wildling lover waiting at home. A stranger sitting with her in the Great Hall, watching her smile at the small folk during their petitioning, unpinning her hair at night, sleeping in her furs.

Instead, he asks, “And Bran?”

“Bran is ruling in my stead. He still isn’t ... as he was, but since the Night King was slain, he returns to us little by little.”

Jon knows this to be true. His correspondence with Bran is the most consistent and, gradually, the content of his letters have contained more and more of Bran’s sense of humour and wonder. It makes Jon think of the little boy who’d fearlessly clambered up every wall at Winterfell, despite Lady Catelyn’s warnings. Miles away from the emotionless void of a man that he had returned to after he’d made such a mess of things at Dragonstone.

“I haven’t heard from Arya in some time, have you?”

“Yes, she’s just been kept busy. Settling into Storm’s End has been trying for her. You know Arya.” She shakes her head fondly. “She’s never had the temperament for being a lady and Gendry has been away often, working hard to earn the respect of the lords.”

She comes closer, smoothing the folded edge of his jerkin. “She is actually back at Winterfell now. She wanted to be with family for the birth of her child. The maesters think it will be a boy.”

Jon’s eyes widen. “She’s with child? How did I not know?”

The corner of her mouth quirks upwards. “Well, she was waiting to tell you herself, but we know how I am with secrets.”

“Aye, we do,” he says, but his smile is tender. Confronted with her like this, he can’t deny how desperately he’s missed her. He knows he shouldn’t, but in the quiet of the godswood, he feels like he’s back in Winterfell, alone with Sansa. He steps into the cradle of her skirts and traces an embroidered wolf across her hip.

“Direwolves and Targaryen colours. I’m no lady, Sansa, but even I know some might consider this scandalous.” He continues tracing along her gown, along the edge of her collar. Her cheeks are a pretty shade of pink and he feels her breath puffing against his lips. He’s reminded of an argument in a tent where he’d felt too much, of a dance at a feast where he’d loved too fiercely, and of a warm, dark room where he’d offered everything and nothing. “Are you staking a claim, Sansa Stark?”

She meets his gaze and her eyes are dark, blazing. “I think we both know I already have.”

Yes, he knows all too well. The memories have haunted him for years. He skates his fingers over the curve of her cheeks and the line of her jaw. He grips her chin so that the pad of his thumb rests on her full lower lip.

“Then why wear it? Why risk it?”

He feels her reply beneath his fingertip. “I needed you to remember that you love me.” Her eyes drift down to his mouth and back.

He all but growls, “Sansa, if I could forget, we’d both be leading simpler lives.” 

Slowly, so slowly, he leans towards her and kisses her as though she might fly away if he asks for too much. After all this time, he thought that he might have forgotten what she felt like, tasted like, but kissing her is like waking from a long sleep to discover that nothing has changed at all. Her nails scrape against the nape of his neck and she returns the kiss eagerly, opening her mouth to him. He pulls her hips against his, pressing into her skirts, and groans into her mouth. Suddenly, her mouth is gone and she leans her forehead against his. He makes to chase after her lips, but she interrupts. 

“We have to be smart, Jon. We both know what happens to Starks who go South.”

He nuzzles at the crook of her neck and she leans her head back, offering him the pale column of her throat. Between kisses, he replies, “Aye, they become Targaryens.”

She hums, the skin of her throat vibrating against his lips. “Be serious, Jon. I doubt Daenerys will be as willing to share a husband as her ancestors were.”

“Hm you’re right I’m sure,” he acquiesces. “You always were about everything. It used to make me so bloody mad. How clever and lovely and _right_ you were.” 

Despite her earlier protest, Sansa’s nimble fingers are making quick work of the laces on his jerkin.

“You know, half those things I said were only to get a rise out of you. You were always off brooding, but when I made you mad, a flush would spread up your neck and you’d have this little pout,” she confesses. “Of course at the time, I didn’t understand why it appealed to me so much. It all seems rather obvious in hindsight.”

Her intrepid fingers push his jerkin up and over his shoulders and untuck his tunic so that they might travel up the hard planes of his stomach. “I wonder at the paths our lives might have taken if we had figured out then how _enjoyable_ the after part could be.”

Her fingers scrape up his chest, over a nipple, and he sucks in a breath. He pulls her close again and reaches around to attempt to undo the laces of her gown, grateful for the lack of the leather armour today.

“I suppose we could always ask Bran.”

“There’s a terrifying thought,” she huffs.

He laughs and hazards, “The Northern lords probably wouldn’t have crowned a sisterfucker for one.”

The neck of her dress is now loose enough that he can see her fine linen shift and the tops of her breasts. He pulls the material to the side, kissing along her collarbone.

“The six kingdoms still crowned an auntfucker.”

“Careful,” he warns, smiling into her skin. He rewards her cheek with a slight nip to the rounded flesh of her shoulder.

“And besides, I’m no king.”

She sighs and steps back again, placing a hand between them. She looks perfectly wanton standing in front of him. Her hair is mussed, her lips swollen, and her beautiful gown hangs loose in the bodice, the material wrinkled from where he’d been fisting it. His hardness chafes against the constraints of his breeches. He would take her right here if he could, but he’ll never take what isn’t freely offered.

“Believe me, I want this, I do! I have thought about it since you left me last, but I came here with a purpose. This marriage between our children cannot happen, Jon, and I won’t leave until the matter is settled.”

He scrubs a hand over his beard.

“Seven Hells, Sansa, could this not have waited for a time when I’m not as hard as Valyrian steel?”

Blushing profusely, she stammers, “Yes, well I, I didn’t anticipate this happening so soon!”

Jon makes to step towards her, voice low. “But you did anticipate it happening eventually.”

“Jon!”

He groans and grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes. Gods, she’ll be the death of him.

“I apologize, Sansa, I’m listening.”

“Robb is too young and this betrothal is premature. My son hasn’t even celebrated his ninth name day and she presumes to marry him off?”

“Aye and Alysanne only celebrated hers half a year ago. I too disagree with the hastiness of this match, but Daenerys is determined to see this through.”

“More like she has finally discovered a way to bring me to heel,” Sansa retorts.

He attempts to placate her by acknowledging the truth of her statement, but she interrupts him.

“She would take my son, Jon, _my only child!_ She would steal my heir to force the North to kneel,” she says wildly.

“Yes, that’s no small part, but I do believe that she also genuinely thinks this to be an advantageous match for them both. She has made up her mind on the matter and refuses to see reason.”

“Then you must make her see reason!”

“Sansa, I know this is far from ideal, but if we don’t have a compelling argument then – “

“They aren’t cousins!” 

The echo of her outburst hangs in the air, heavy with implications. She looks at him and continues more gently, “Our children are not cousins, Jon, they are siblings.”

Suddenly, Jon’s heart feels like it might burst out of his chest. He doesn’t understand what any of this means, but he feels breathless and wild. Sansa reaches into a panel sewn into the inside of her gown and hands him something. Jon stares down at the miniature of a young boy. His long Stark face is framed with dark auburn curls, but instead of Tully-blue eyes, like those of his namesake, his are a deep, dark brown. Jon ghosts a finger over the painting. _Robb_. He’s never seen the boy before now.

Sansa must have sidled up to him during his inspection, as she now tenderly grasps his wrist.

“They say he looks like Ned Stark, but a mother knows. He looks like his father, he looks like _you_.”

Jon experiences the sensation of falling from a great height, grasping for anything to slow his descent. He’s struggling to make sense of Sansa’s confession. It still seems so impossible. 

And yet. 

_And yet._


	2. If you must leave, leave as though fire burns under your feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of bygones and beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on to your butts, dear reader, because it's flashback time. This chapter is set nine years prior to the events of Chapter 1, so right after Daenerys' conquest of King's Landing.
> 
> Also, the bulk of this was written before the finale script was released. Be prepared to suspend your disbelief, I guess, because the Jon in this fic got at least a B- in geography. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Jon's wedding to Daenerys takes surprisingly little time to plan. The decimation of both the capital and the great houses prevents a grander affair, but there are enough high lords in attendance that Daenerys is satisfied when he bends the knee. At times, it feels as though her approval is his only concern; his life has grown so impossibly small that he has no room to consider anything else. Daenerys’ satisfaction means his survival and the survival of those he loves. There is nothing else that matters anymore. _Is this how Sansa felt_ , he wonders. Another Stark, in another time, walking the same halls and shouldering a similar burden.

If the planning had been brief, the unravelling of the charade is almost instantaneous. Daenerys keeps him around long enough for the marriage ceremony and bedding, but the following morning finds him being escorted out of the keep by two Unsullied soldiers. Tyrion – _always fucking Tyrion_ – meets him at the gates and informs him of their queen’s plans for him. She has decided that Jon and his new Unsullied guards will travel to the Wall for the foreseeable future, where he will oversee its reconstruction. The new Lord Commander has already been contacted and awaits his arrival, it would seem. Her Grace, Tyrion relays, has graciously permitted him to take his sword, his horse, and his furs, but no more. 

The man’s smug face plainly tells the story of his involvement. How hopeless Jon must seem to not even be worthy of deception from a man who lies more easily than breathing. But Jon is not the fool Tyrion thinks he is. He understands the purpose of this scheme. This is no vote of confidence, not even Daenerys expects him to rebuild a wall that is barely under her jurisdiction to keep out a threat that no longer exists. Jon glances at the men on either side of him, their impassive faces betraying no opinion on being so abruptly sent to the edge of the world. They are clearly here keep his path straight and true and to keep him out of the hands of the Queen in the North, but they are unnecessary. The shadow of Drogon arcing above the city is warning enough.

Instead of rotting in the dungeons, he is being sent away on some false mission so that there will be no talk of the missing Prince Consort and an unhappy union. This farce of a mission is meant only to obscure his continued incarceration at Castle Black until Daenerys can stand his presence at court again. Jon would wager that once the Red Keep is repaired and enough lords and ladies return that the question of his disappearance becomes harder to sidestep, he’ll be called back to sit patiently by his queen’s side. He hopes in vain that that day does not materialize. While he recognizes that this is meant to be a punishment, it feels more like a relief. Daenerys will never succeed in making his home a prison.

For the first time since setting foot on the sandy shores of Dragonstone, Jon feels his heart lift as he sets off North, flanked by his silent Unsullied guards. Unfortunately, the relative warmth of King’s Landing has left him unprepared for the winter that has only grown fiercer in his absence. He loses track of his guards as they cross the Neck; they fade one by one into the blizzard that whips around him. Jon feels for them, lost and terrified in a land and climate they were not built for, but he is a Northerner and he will not die here because he went digging for dead men in the snow. The squall does not cease, snow growing heavy as it piles onto his furs, and he knows that he will never make it to the Wall. Freed of his guards, he changes plans, riding instead towards the place he needs no map or lodestar to find. It is by sheer luck that the guards at the South Gate had fought in the Battle of Winterfell and recognize him immediately, opening the gates with no protest. It’s a good fortune that he has no recollection of, as he remembers precious little between seeing the walls of Winterfell through the haze of snow and waking up in warm furs. 

The featherbed he awakes in is comfortable, less comfortable than Daenerys’ extravagant one had been, but certainly no comparison to what he’s grown used to. He shifts, slowly coming back to himself. Gods, he feels like utter shit. His movements are silent, even the direst of circumstances cannot overcome his years of practiced stealth, but they are enough to disrupt the furs. They smell of something fresh and vernal, completely at odds with the ravages of winter that he’d been so recently reacquainted with. A smell that’s achingly familiar. _Sansa._ He knows in an instant that he is in the lord’s chambers – Sansa’s chambers – in the Great Keep. A sudden wetness against his open palm causes his eyes to flutter open and meet the red gaze of his direwolf. Ghost noses Jon's hand and he weakly grabs the wolf’s snout in acknowledgment.

“What are you doing here, boy?” His voice is croaky from disuse and the dryness in his throat.

“When Tormund left, Ghost refused to join him. He’s been here with me since.”

Jon nearly jumps out of his skin when her voice rings out from the shadows near the hearth.

“Seven Hells, Sansa,” Jon rasps, attempting to sit up. She’s at his bedside in an instant, a cool, firm hand pressing against his shoulder. His bare shoulder. Is he undressed? He shifts again, enough to know that he’s still in breeches.

“Don’t get up.” Her touch is light, but forceful. He relaxes back into the pillows. 

“You’ve been ill, Jon. You’ve been abed with fever for three days, you mustn’t strain your body further,” she tells him matter-of-factly. “When they brought you in, I thought,” she hesitates, staring off at the snow blustering outside the window. In the quiet of the chamber, the wailing of the wind and crackling of the hearth are deafening. 

“I thought you were dead.” 

The last part is whispered so quietly that he must strain to hear. He looks at her then, properly, taking her in for the first time since he’d marched south to fight Daenerys’ war. She looks the same, but not quite. Her hair falls loose down her back, as red as ever. But her face is sharper, more severe. The light of the hearth shadows her eyes and he isn’t sure whether the thought of him being dead had been displeasing to her or welcome news.

“Once it was clear you were still alive, we had to strip you of your wet clothes and put you in the bath lest you die of the cold,” she continues, tipping a mug of water to his lips. “It was a near thing, Jon.” 

_We_? Jon’s mind fills with images of Sansa undressing him, bathing him, laying in the bed next to him. Leftovers from his apparent fever dreams, no doubt, because Sansa would never do those things and certainly not for a man who betrayed her so thoroughly.

She slides her other hand to the back of his damp neck to help him drink and he gulps the water down appreciatively. When he finishes, she places the mug on a nearby table and leans towards him, pushing his hair back from his face with delicate fingers. He’s startled by her tenderness until she presses the back of her hand to his forehead and he understands. Her other hand, which has not moved from his nape, is gentle, but her words are not.

“I should offer congratulations to you and your new bride. The ashes must have looked like snow; a fitting wedding for a King of Winter.”

 _I’m not a king_ , he wants to say. _I’m not anything._

She’s close enough now that he can see the proud line of her jaw and the tight set of her mouth. He can also see that her eyes are wet. Just like that, her hands are gone and she rises, walking towards the door.

“I’ll tell Sam and Maester Wolkan that your fever has broken.”

Has it? His skin certainly still feels feverish.

******

When she returns later that evening, he learns that he’d at least been right about one thing. They have and will apparently continue to share a bed. 

He can’t help but baulk at her when she pads over in her night rail and slips under the furs. It’s dark enough that he can only see her silhouette, but the knowledge of her state of undress prompts him to clear his throat nervously. She merely huffs in irritation.

“Despite whatever nonsense you spewed in your last scroll, you are still my family and you are ill. I would like to be near in case you are in need of anything. Lest you forget, these are my chambers and I won’t be sleeping in an armchair on account of your modesty.”

“My modesty!” he gapes, “Sansa, you are an unmarried queen sharing a bed with your married cousin! There will be talk.”

She scowls and fluffs her pillows with unnecessary force. “Then let there be talk! People trapped indoors during winter will gossip about anything anyway. I am Queen in the North and I won’t let idle chatter keep me from a good night’s sleep.”

She calls for Ghost, who trots up onto the bed and curls his massive form between them.

“There, now there will be a barrier between us to protect your virtue.”

Jon lies awake long after he listens to Sansa’s breathing even out. This time, however, there are no thoughts of pyres and mistakes, only of the woman once again within arm’s reach and her mind, which seems further away than ever.

Unfortunately for Jon, Ghost never stays until morning. For three more torturous days, he wakes tangled up in Sansa. Her arms, her legs, her hair, her smell. It’s normal, he tells himself, for two bodies to seek each other’s warmth on a cold winter’s night. And he does feel warm. The kind of warmth he had felt before the wars, when they had argued, when he had stared at her too long across the Great Hall, and when he’d had to refrain himself from placing a kiss on the exposed slope of her neck as she worked over her embroidery. All of these memories return to him, as fresh as the day they were formed, and make it more difficult to pretend this is just about a deprived man craving any human connection. That this isn’t something that has been living inside him ever since the red woman brought him back wrong. So every morning he carefully extricates himself from her embrace, praying that she isn’t aware of how very warm she makes him feel.

Finally, Sansa consents for him to roam the halls unattended and return to his old chambers. It’s an illusory freedom, however, because Sansa and Sam still stalk him through the halls. The way they fuss over him, one would think that he was a child and not a soldier who’d killed that boy long ago. Davos, it turns out, is no less meddlesome. Jon had been overjoyed to learn that his former Hand had been reunited with his remaining family and soon discovered that there is no longer a moment’s peace to be had in his presence. The constant din suits him fine; in fact, it is a welcome distraction when he needs to drown out his frustrations. With his recovery, with Sansa, or with the perennially looming shadow of the South and its mercurial queen. He has missed Davos’ gruff but straightforward manner, but he’d forgotten how irritatingly perspicacious the man could be. Every time that Sansa appears to check on his well-being or to deliver some urgent news to her advisor, Jon feels Davos’ eyes on him. He knows that behind that knowing look, a conversation about his marriage and choices is brewing and it is one he would rather avoid. Which is how he finds himself seeking out Bran with an increasing frequency. Bran is still not entirely himself, or maybe even human, but Jon is grateful for the relative peace and quiet on their trips around the castle. Sometimes his brother stares at him so intently that Jon thinks he can see him stripped down to the bone, but he doesn’t ask any questions and, for that, Jon is grateful.

His recovery is greatly slowed by the harsh winter and hard rations and it is a full week before he is allowed outside. In that time, Sansa has seemed uninterested in any further conversation about why he is here and to whom he must return, but when he is at last well enough to take her for a full walk around the godswood she is so pleased that he feels the words tumbling out of his mouth anyway. He tells her that he must make for the Wall and fulfil his duty. That he can’t stay. 

“Your duty,” she repeats, “to whom, Jon?” She gestures to an empty godswood. “Who is here to ensure you travel north? If you were sent to the Wall with any intention of protecting the realm from northern threats, you can certainly do so from here. Who will know?” 

“The Lord Commander, I’d imagine.”

“The Lord Commander is my subject, irrespective of what your queen may believe. He will answer to me.”

He wonders for a moment if she will demand that he stay. His heart hammers against his ribs, but not for the same reason it had when another queen had ordered the same. She must sense his hesitation, however, because her commanding mask melts away and leaves only fear and concern in its wake. 

“If you must go, then go. I will not beg to keep you here.” She turns her back to him and he watches her furs dance in the wind. “But you should know that Bran does not think the storms will let up for another three moons at least. It won’t be safe for anyone to travel such a distance, let alone a man who is yet to completely recover. Is this duty worth your life?” 

His chest aches from the sting of the frigid air and from something more familiar and more terrible. He grabs her wrist, directing her back around to face him. He searches her blue eyes for something he can’t name and finds only genuine distress. Shame knifes through him, a heat so searing that for a moment he forgets the bone-deep cold. Is this how he had left her? Riding south on the back of a dragon and on a tyrant’s orders, vanishing to a land where Starks go to die. He cups her cheek with a gloved hand, leather creaking against the biting chill of winter. His answer to her question would have been the same then as it is now.

“I would trade my life ten times over for yours, Sansa. If Daenerys discovers that you kept me here, I don’t know that I can protect you from her wrath.”

She leans into his covered palm and the movement causes the hood of her cloak to fall back. Fat snowflakes alight on her mouth, her hair, her eyelashes. In the snow of the godswood, she does not look severe, only radiant.

She carefully removes his hand to clasp it between her own.

“That is not a trade I will accept. Let me keep you safe from the storm, at least for a little while.”

He nods, dumbly, and she smiles so bright and true that he wishes he could disappear forever into this moment in time. But time does not abide by the wants of men.

“No one can protect anyone,” he whispers, but it is lost to the howling winds.

******

Weeks pass and the storm does not let up. At her request, he begins to assist Sansa with some of her duties. He sits with her during petitions, infrequent though they are now, helps her with the monumental tasks of coordinating repairs and food allocation, and every night they retire to her solar to sup with Bran. Afterwards, when Bran departs, they work late into the evening going over that day’s affairs. More than once, as he helps her review the meager correspondence that finds its way through the winter winds, he opens a letter in which some lord not so subtly asks after Sansa’s marriage prospects. He quietly places those scrolls to the side, made uncomfortable by the knowledge that he cannot bring himself to discuss them with her. 

The nights are long and her bedchamber warm and even though he has chambers of his own now, more often than not, he nods off in hers. Every morning, when he wakes to find that his boots have been removed and a thick woolen blanket placed over him, he is dragged further towards a precipice that he has so desperately tried to avoid. Yet the closer he gets, the more seductive the fall. If she is awake, he will press a kiss to the crown of her head in thanks, but no more. Once, he turns back before leaving and when he catches her eye, she looks away, cheeks flushed. They never speak of it, this odd, intimate ritual they partake in, although the castle certainly does.

When dawn breaks and he leaves her chambers, Jaime and Brienne watch him exit in silence, even though he knows they have much to say in private about his intentions. Jaime had revealed as much during Sansa’s last feast, her latest attempt to relieve Winterfell of the melancholy that sets in when people are trapped inside for too long. Jaime had challenged Jon to a drinking game but had obviously never intended to play fair, waiting until Jon was well in his cups to ask whether he had taken the Queen in the North to bed. Jon had only stammered out confused denials, utterly bested by the least clever Lannister. Jaime had laughed gaily, while Brienne scowled at both of them.

“I know that look, you poor sod,” he’d said and then turned to ask a pink-cheeked Brienne to dance. In the days that follow Jaimie’s little game, Jon tries in vain to be less transparent. But how else is he meant to look at her? When she stands in the Great Hall, tall and regal in her Stark colours and a hand sunk into Ghost’s fur, how can anyone look at her like she is anything less than a dream come to life?

One day, during their habitual midday meal, Sam turns as red as Sansa’s hair as he sputters about the latest gossip he’s heard. That Queen Sansa has taken Aegon Targaryen as a lover. That she’s convinced the Prince Consort to take her as his second wife, in the tradition of the Targaryens of old. How they mate as wolves. 

Jon laughs weakly to cover his unease.

“That’s nonsense, Sam. You and I both know that Sansa would never do any of those things.” 

It seems, however, that his friend is not to be so easily deterred. Sam looks at him with a steady gaze, and with an unusual directness asks, “But you would?”

Jon thinks of that precipice and the careful restraint that he’s been attempting. A line he’s drawn and sworn not to cross. When Sam asks that question it’s as though his friend has handed him a lit torch and he can now see that he’s been in the abyss all along. He’d tumbled over the edge the very first morning he’d woken up next to Sansa at Castle Black and he’s never been able to dig his way out.

“Yes,” he replies, “I would do anything for her if she wanted it.” He surprises even himself with the truth of his words.

Sam frowns. “What of Daenerys?”

Her name seems to be anathema to the residents of Winterfell for the number of times it has gone conspicuously unsaid, but he should have known that Sam would not shy away from this. The set of his friend’s mouth, contrasting sharply with his normally open and jovial face, makes it obvious that the only names that will go unsaid between them are Randyll and Dickon Tarly. His question is an accusation, not an inquiry.

“I am not her husband, Sam. I am her hostage. After what she did – what I helped her do – I went to set things right. I swear to you I tried, but I was too late. She held me prisoner and the North was readying for war over it, so I did what was necessary to put an end to it all.”

Sam’s face softens considerably. What feels like a lifetime ago, Jon had asked Sansa if she had any faith in him at all. Perhaps she was not the only person to whom he should have posed the question.

“What will you do?” 

Jon longs to find perfect answer waiting for him in Sam’s sad eyes.

“I will do as I have always done. I will try to keep the North and Sansa safe at whatever cost. If that means I must live and die in the South, at Daenerys’ side, then so be it.”

“Oh dear,” Sam replies, patting Jon’s hand reassuringly.

 _Oh dear_ , indeed.

******

Ever since his conversation with Sam, he feels raw and exposed, as if he wears his feelings for Sansa on his sleeve so that anyone might see. It does not help matters that even after so much time in each other’s company, they continue to evade discussing the war or Daenerys or any of the hurts that lie between. The more time passes, the more these omissions burden him. He doesn’t deserve her kindness, he knows. So then why is she bestowing it so liberally? He is well familiar with Sansa’s upbraidings. Before he’d journeyed south, she’d never hesitated to let him know what she thought of his poor decisions. The memory of her in his tent, her throat working as she demanded his respect and consideration, still heats his cheeks. He cannot comprehend why she is choosing to stay quiet now.

Even the Northerners greet him with a respect that feels unearned. When he’d asked, Davos had informed him that his legacy had been Sansa’s to keep. Where he should be a traitor, she’s ensured he would be remembered as a man who fought for the North and protected them against old and dangerous magic. If there is any mention of the other old and dangerous magic he’d brought to their doorstep, the kind that currently roams, unfettered, in King’s Landing, he does not hear of it.

Jon was born in a bed of blood, built for war from birth. Though Sansa yields no weapons other than her keen mind and scrupulous courtesies, he finds himself tensing on instinct in her presence; waiting for a blow that does not come. Is this how his father had felt when he had brought a bastard babe home to his betrayed wife, or did Lady Catelyn scream and rage at him the way he wishes Sansa would?

Sansa smiles at him across the high table and, over the din of the feast, he can hear Bran say, “If you wish to know her mind, you need only ask.”

Before he can think about Bran’s advice, she is in front of him, asking him to dance and he’s powerless to refuse her. She looks like pure joy as she twirls around with her hair wild and a grin on her face. When they were children, she’d always preferred the more intricate southron dances. More than a few times he’d caught her sedulously practicing her steps with Jeyne Poole. She had been beautiful then too, but fragile, like a winter rose in summer. Now, spinning across the floor in a northern reel she is like a live flame. They trade partners briefly and when she returns to him, she’s flushed and panting and she feels so marvellous in his arms. The only dancing that Jon is adept at is the kind that involves a blade, but it occurs to him that perhaps he was only ever lacking the right partner. 

“I love you,” he wants to tell her. “Why don’t you hate me?” he asks, instead. 

It is the wrong thing to say and he knows it as soon as the words escape. Gone is the lively and carefree woman from before. The mask returns and she is a stoic, untouchable queen once more. As soon as the dance finishes, she slips out of the hall. Luckily, most of the guests are too far into their cups to notice her departure or him following after her.

When he latches her chamber door behind them, she whirls on him with unexpected ferocity.

“Do you want to hear that I am cross with you, Jon? Of course, I am! I am furious that you brought her into our home, which you _gave away_ , and then followed her south. I’m even more furious that you stood by as she destroyed a city and still decided she was someone worth marrying. You have managed to do everything I ever counselled you against! Sometimes, I am so angry I think that I might burn from the inside, hotter than the fire from any of her dragons.” 

Sansa begins pacing her room like a caged animal. She has never looked more like a wolf than she does now.

“Do you not know, Jon, how it eats at me to spend every day with you – ruling by my side, as it should have been – and knowing that you’d rather be with your queen. Your _wife_. The woman who stole you from your family, from me, and burned thousands without a care, just as her father burned our uncle and grandfather. You have wounded me, Jon, and every day I am split open anew when I think about how, when asked to choose between Daenerys and your family, you chose _wrong._ ” 

He steps towards her gingerly, as though she might snap at him if he approaches too quickly.

“Then why not tell me so? Why play this game?”

“Because you left!” she shouts, “You all left me! You left for your queen, Arya left for her adventures, and even Bran left, his mind at least. I am alone! And I thought, I thought...” She wavers and suddenly she is no longer the formidable Red Wolf, she is just a woman, defeated. 

“I thought that if I was kinder than before – if I was gentler and argued less – maybe this time you wouldn’t leave,” she murmurs. There are tears welling in the corners of her eyes and he feels as though he will be torn asunder by the weight of his guilt.

“It is impossible, of course. Nothing I do will ever be enough to change the way of things. This time with you has been like a cruel fever dream; a glimpse at how life might have been if I had been better, cleverer. I know you must think me pathetic and I understand you long to go to the Wall and then back to the woman you love. I won’t embarrass myself further; you are free to go.”

Shocked, he says the first thing that comes to mind. “I don’t love her.” Her eyes meet his, deep pools of blue. 

With a considering look, she says, “You did when last I asked.”

“Aye, and then she burnt a city! What manner of monster must you think me?” he retorts. 

He can feel his blood rising, old patterns begging to be repeated. Arguing with Sansa is like slipping on an old cloak, comforting and familiar. They were masters at it, once. They could circle each other for what felt like hours, hackles raised, spitting words, all the while revealing little of their intimate truths. Jon’s never been adept at tempering his anger, particularly where Sansa is concerned, but he also cannot blame her for believing a deception crafted by his own hand. Perhaps if he had been better at laying his feelings bare then, she might not so willingly accept his lie now. 

He clenches and unclenches his sword hand. There was a time when all he’d ever wanted was to stop fighting and here he is spoiling for one because vulnerability seems more foreign than war. When had being craven become so easy?

He tries again.

“When I married Daenerys, it was for my love of the North, not for her. I didn’t want you to go to war for me, Sansa, and if I married her, I could help secure her claim and cut you off at the knees. I will never be as clever as you. It took me much longer, but I did eventually see the truth of what she was and since that time my only concern has been your safety.”

She is silent, her eyes far away, and he watches as her mind works. Her back is straight as steel as she walks over to the large wooden desk across from them and removes her crown. When it leaves her head, she lets out a sigh that he almost confuses for the whistling of the wind. 

“I sent so many ravens,” she starts, running her fingers along the twin metal-wrought direwolves. She sets the circlet on the desk and turns back to him. “When you never answered, I assumed you hated me for revealing your Targaryen heritage to Tyrion, for betraying Daenerys. That you hadn’t forgiven me.”

“I assumed the worst,” she says, almost to herself.

He crosses the short distance between them and grasps her elbows. He needs to know that she can hear the truth of his words.

“I never got your ravens. Daenerys forbid any correspondence between us until she and I were wed. Until it was too late to stop.” They are of a height and he need not lean down to meet her eyes, hoping she can see his earnestness.

“I swear to you that I don’t love her. I did once, I won’t deny that. She was young and beautiful and righteous, but I was so very wrong about a great many things, Sansa,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Or maybe I was always more in love with what she represented, someone good who wanted me back,” he finishes miserably.

Jon rears back at Sansa’s bark of laughter, but she catches his wrist to hold him still.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant! It’s just that Jon, you were plenty wanted. You never needed Daenerys for that.”

He inhales sharply.

“I’m serious, Alys Karstark used to constantly make eyes at you – ”

“ – that’s not what I – ”

“ – and I am sure the ladies at court – ”

“ – I don't care about – ”

“ - are not inured to your sensitive charms – ”

“ – but none of them are _you!_ ” The words hang between them like heavy, tangible things.

Sansa’s grip tightens on his wrist and she gapes at him, eyes wide. Reflexively, he tries to look away but finds himself pulled into the undertow of her piercing blue gaze. The silence between them feels stretched to breaking.

“Did you... _Do_ you want that?” she finally asks. Though her voice is quiet, it commands an answer. He knows he should lie, should tell her that all he really wants is family and to be needed, but he’s so godsdamned tired of lying.

“Yes,” he breathes, “All the time. To distraction.” 

He expects her to throw him out, to send him to the Wall, where he belongs. He does not expect her to pull herself tentatively forward, using his wrist as an anchor, and delicately kiss him on the mouth. It is a chaste kiss, her soft lips brushing against his only briefly before she leans back on her heels. Her lips are still parted and he watches her darkened eyes skitter down to his mouth again. It is all the invitation he needs to stumble towards her, hands travelling to her jaw. She meets him halfway, kissing him eagerly, hungrily, if inexpertly. He tilts her head and uses his thumb to pull open her mouth, his tongue sliding against hers. 

He runs his hands over every inch of the exposed skin of her face and neck, trying to memorize the feel of her. Her porcelain skin burns against his eager hands, but he would gladly be consumed. After yearning to for so long, he finally, _finally,_ sinks his hands into her thick, red hair. The keening noise she makes in the back of her throat makes his desire kick so hotly that he drives his hips into hers, pressing her back against the edge of her desk. Her fingers reach for the laces of his jerkin and doublet, fumbling.

“Please, Jon, take these off,” she begs breathlessly. Jon does not know if he has ever wanted anything as badly as he currently wants Sansa splayed out beneath him. Nevertheless, he groans against the weight of his desire, disentangling his hands from her lovely hair and fisting them by his sides. No matter how sweet it would be, Jon will not fuck Sansa Stark – the Queen in the North – up against this desk, when he is in no position to do anything but dishonour her. Although he takes a halting half step back, her fingers do not leave his laces.

“Sansa, we shouldn’t,” he objects, dropping a kiss to her brow. He knows he’d be making a stronger case if he could just stop fucking touching her.

“I’ve read the scrolls, Sansa. You could find a good man, who can offer much more than I can. I won’t hurt your chances of making a proper match.”

She shakes her head. “After,” she falters, frowning. “Well, no one labours under the delusion that I am still a maid.” She steps into him, fingers working his laces with renewed vigour. “Besides, I’ve no desire to marry again.”

She crowds him so that her breasts are pressed against his chest and he wants nothing more than to take her back into his arms. 

“Would it help if I told you how very much I want this, Jon?”

Her lips are red and _so_ close and they spread into a delicious smile as she takes advantage of his distraction to remove his jerkin. 

“I have wanted this for a very long time. I have thought often about how your hands would feel against my skin and what your weight would be like above me.” Jon’s already hard, but her words alone would be enough to arouse any sane man. She must not be able to feel it through her stiff skirts or she would know how unnecessary this seduction is. Her deft hands push at his doublet and he goes slack, letting it fall to the floor.

“All those lords and their sons are only interested in their own ambitions, not me. You know me, Jon.” She looks at him through her lashes and her tongue darts out to wet her lips. If he hadn’t already fallen, he’d willingly jump now. “I want to know what this is like with someone who cares about me. Someone that I love. Can you give me that?”

His head swims with the desire to do exactly as she asks. His hands find their way to the dip of her waist, fingers flexing against the damask of her dress. Remorsefully, he says, “I can’t stay, Sansa. I will have to return to King’s Landing eventually; I can’t hide here forever.”

“Then give me something to remember you by when I’m alone in my bed once again.” She leans forward to kiss him and he smiles against her mouth.

“I see you’ve already made up your mind, then.” It’s a whisper against her lips. He parts from her only long enough to remove his undershirt. He stifles a moan when her warm hands, at last, roam freely over his bare chest, tracing his many scars. “I should have known better than to reason with you.” His mouth finds her again, trailing up her graceful neck. She leans back against the desk, a feast to be devoured.

She hums, “Yes, you should have.” The pitch of her voice stokes the flames of his desire until he can think of nothing other than how desperately he needs to be inside her. “Now, take off your breeches and undress me,” she demands, turning around.

He almost trips into an armchair in his haste to do as she commands and he can see her shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Down to his smallclothes, he moves her long hair to the side and unlaces her gown, slowly sliding it off her shoulders. In the glow of the hearth, he can see the silvery lines of the scars down the backs of her arms and, through the sheerness of her shift, on her back. Sansa turns to face him, the faint light outlining the rounded contours of her body.

“You can keep your shift on if you prefer,” he offers.

She quirks an eyebrow, unties the laces at her side with an expert hand, and lets her shift drop to the floor. Her smallclothes and stockings follow and she daintily steps out of the puddle of fabric, completely and gloriously bare.

“Fuck,” he rasps. He drinks in the sight of her, parched by the heat of her gaze. His hands ghost over every curve of her body. They slide up her thighs, over the swell of her backside, and up her ribcage to cup her breasts, his thumbs sweeping over their rosy peaks. She responds enthusiastically to his touch; better than anything he could have dreamed. Pressed against him, flesh to flesh, he feels like some part of him has been restored, like he is whole again.

He pulls her in for a deep kiss and moves her towards the bed. She falls backwards onto the feather tick with a huff. Gods, she looks beautiful spread out before him. The creamy expanse of her pale skin spreading for miles, like the snow outside the castle walls. She leans on her elbows, a flush blooming across her heaving chest, the rhythm of it mesmerizing. Her lips are shiny and kiss-swollen and her hair, fanning out behind her, mirrors the flames in her hearth. The hair between her legs is no less red and he can’t help but think of how incredible it will feel to sink into her. But Jon’s no greenboy, he knows something of a woman’s pleasure and he wants to make this good for her. He kneels on the bed between her legs and slides a hand up one calf.

“You said you’ve thought of this.” His voice is rough with need and his northern burr thicker. “Tell me, Sansa, do you ever touch yourself?” 

He is immensely gratified to see her nod shyly.

“And do you think of me then?” Her stare is so intent that he can feel his hands practically shaking with want.

In a throaty voice that is louder and clearer than her shy demeanour would suggest, she replies, “Yes. Only you.”

The desire courses through him so hotly that he thinks he might combust.

“Show me then, show me how you touch yourself, what you like.”

She lets her legs fall open a little wider, gliding a hand to her breast and another down through the wiry curls at the juncture of her thighs. He watches raptly as she touches herself, his cock stiff between his legs. He quickly divests himself of his smallclothes and climbs onto the bed next to her. Propping himself up on an elbow, he uses his other hand to caress her breast as she had, rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Her heart beats a rapid staccato against his palm as it skims across her soft skin. She moans loudly and immediately presses her lips together, embarrassed. He moves his hand up to her jaw, his thumb rubbing circles on her flushed cheek.

“No, please, I’d love to hear you.”

Her eyes glimmer darkly – a thin ring of blue around inky pupils – and she turns her head to kiss his palm. It’s a gesture so tender that in an instant he feels the weight of her love and trust like a warm blanket around his shoulders. That she has chosen to be so vulnerable with him now is frankly difficult to comprehend. He cannot conceive of what he’s done to deserve it.

He leans back down to kiss her, one that starts out gentle but quickly turns to tongue and teeth. Jon’s certain that he’s never heard anything sweeter than the noises she makes as he skates his hand lower to meet hers. As he goes, he tries to catalogue the texture of her skin, to convince himself that he is really here with Sansa, that this isn’t some punishing dream that he will wake from, alone again in his prison cell.

He watches through hooded lids, taking note of the way her hand moves before replacing her fingers with his own. Sansa guides him for a time until he crooks his fingers just so inside of her and she gasps, both of her hands flying to his shoulders as she arches up into him. She looks completely bewildered and he can’t fight the smug smile that works its way onto his face. Her hand winds through his hair, pulling his mouth roughly back to hers, while the other roams his back, a brand that marks every available inch of him as hers. Her breathing stutters, a silent prelude to her release.

He places a kiss on her damp neck, where her pulse thrums. 

“Jon,” she pants, “Please, I need...” She doesn’t finish telling him what she needs. Instead, she reaches a hand between them and strokes the length of him.

He chokes out something that doesn’t quite amount to words. He is so desperate for her that he can’t help but thrust into her hand. But he’s not yet completely without sense.

“Sansa, I don’t, I can’t father a bastard.” Every stare and unkind word, being hidden away in the corners; he’d never put that on a child. Sansa’s tender gaze speaks to her understanding.

Her voice is low when she says, “There are other ways to prevent a babe. We need not abstain.” Validation of his deepest desires, her words cut through the last of his self-control. There can be no turning back now.

“Do you trust me?” It feels like the most important question he’s ever asked. 

She nods and he rolls them over so that she’s lying on top of him. She lets out a startled squeak. Gods, but she’s breathtaking. “Sit up, love,” he tells her. She leans back and in so doing, rubs herself against him. They let out twin sighs at the exquisite friction. Before he can even take a breath, her hand winds its way around his shaft again, positioning him at her entrance. She looks positively haughty as she lowers herself onto him. Sansa in power is a beautiful thing to behold. 

She’s so fucking wet and tight and perfect and so he tells her so, babbled madly along with a half-dozen other endearments and curses, but his vulgarity only seems to excite her more. He grasps her hips, slowing down her pace to meet his and when he brings the heel of his palm to rub against the apex of her sex, he is rewarded with a breathy whimper. 

If Jon were to crawl back into the grave tomorrow, the wet heat of her might be the only thing he’d relive before fading into the dark nothingness that awaits after death. If death is an absence, Sansa is pure substance. She is everywhere at once, consuming every thought and every sense. After he’d gasped back to life, he’d known only a cavernous sort of emptiness, but he thinks it should have felt like this. Watching Sansa ride him, feeling her fingers curl into the hair on his chest, is like being reborn. In a life replete with poor choices, it feels as though he has done one right thing at long last. When she eventually peaks with a cry, he follows close behind.

******

Later that night, Jon dreams that he is back in Flea Bottom, covered in blood, and watching dragonfire tear indiscriminately through stone and flesh. He follows one of his men into an alleyway, prying him off a whimpering woman and running him through with Longclaw. Only this time, the woman has bright red hair and Tully-blue eyes and she stares at him in horror, clutching at her ruined dress. His hands shake as he reaches for the corpse and turns it over to find his own dark eyes staring back. He tries to run, but the skeletal hands of the dead reach up from the ground, tearing at his limbs until they finally pull him under into the cold, dark earth. The last thing he sees before the darkness devours him completely is the woman engulfed in flames, but she does not burn. In the heat of the fire, her hair turns white and her eyes violet and she says to him with a cruel smile, “Look at what you have done, Aegon Targaryen.”

He awakes with a gasp, clutching at his heart, and it takes him a moment to realize that he is in Sansa’s bed and the rushing in his ears is actually the sound of his name on her lips. She reaches for his face and he flinches. Even in the dark, she must notice, because her hands fall back with a shaky exhale. He heaves out a ragged breath and grabs for her, pulling her into a too-tight embrace. He is familiar with Sansa’s nightmares. They were frequent in those first days preparing for battle and then having reclaimed Winterfell. She refused the service of a handmaid, which left only him and Brienne to wake her from her night terrors. Sansa, meanwhile, has no experience with his.

“Jon, you’re crying.” Her hands and voice are too delicate, too attentive. He buries his head in her shoulder in an attempt to muffle his wracking sobs. He tries to focus, to breathe. He charts the soothing path of her hands in his mind: through his hair and down his back, in calming circles. He listens to the calming susurrus of her voice as she murmurs reassurances into his ear and gradually his heart slows and his breathing evens.

He leans back and she wipes the remaining tears from his face. Sansa would never demand it of him, but he feels the need to explain, regardless.

“Sometimes, I dream of the day we took King’s Landing. Of the fire and blood and wreckage. There were women and children and... My men... I... We were monsters. _I_ am a monster.”

“Oh, Jon. You thought you were doing what was best – fulfilling an oath – you are not responsible for what Daenerys did – ”

“ – I should have known! I should have listened to you – ”

“ – Our mistakes do not make us monsters. Your remorse is proof enough of your goodness.”

She places a kiss on his knuckles and his heart lurches. He wants so badly to believe her.

“Before he died, Father told me that he would make me a match with someone brave and gentle and strong. You are all those things and more, Jon. He would have been proud of the man you have become. It has not escaped me that the North likely owes its freedom to you. You have done more for me than any man; I only regret that you had to trade your freedom for it.”

Her breath is hot against his hand, still held close to her mouth.

“Can you forgive me? For telling Tyrion the truth of your parentage. I thought to protect you, but perhaps if I hadn’t ...” she trails off, lost in thought. Jon is well acquainted with the alluring pull of regret, but he no longer wants it in their bed between them. Sansa deserves more. _He_ deserves more. And so he leans forward and presses his mouth to hers.

“There is nothing to forgive.”

******

It is altogether too easy to slip back into his old role at Winterfell. When he sits by Sansa’s side, wearing clothing made by her hand, he feels like he is King in the North once more. Only now when he falls asleep in her chambers, it is in her bed, skin on skin.

He supposes this is what it would be like to be her husband and what a sweet life it would be. Protected by the walls of Winterfell and separated from the rest of the realm by a thick blanket of snow, he can almost convince himself that his fantasy is real, that Sansa is his lady wife, and that his southron marriage is only a far off dream. As much as he wishes it, as much as he would like to pretend it is so, Sansa is not his to keep and so every morning he slips back into his chambers before the girl who tends the queen’s fire catches him in her bed. He tries to be discrete, for her sake, if not his own. The rumours are already so fantastical, he feels no need to add fuel to the fire. There are some who know – Jaime and Brienne, who guard her door and watch him enter and exit with a cheeky grin and a shake of the head, respectively, and Sam, from whom Sansa acquires her moon tea – and more who suspect, but he will not be the one to prove their theories correct. 

Restraint, he discovers, is difficult when faced with the heat of his desire and a headstrong lover. Putting head over heart has never come easy and it seems a near impossible feat now. Sometimes, when her mouth curves just so or her voice lilts in that particular way that she knows excites him, he cannot help but pull her into the nearest alcove and show her the magnitude of her effect on him. An effect that she’s all too aware of and has used to her advantage, ending a number of arguments with little more than the press of her body. He can’t say that he minds. The arguing had always seemed like a prologue to this anyway.

Four moons after his arrival in Winterfell, the storm breaks and the rest of the world comes rushing back in. Sansa is waiting for him in her solar and, from the iron in her posture and the ice in her eyes, Jon can tell that something is wrong. She reaches to the desk behind her and hands him three scrolls. He hasn’t even removed his gloves and the snow on them slowly melts into the parchment. Three blood-red royal seals stare up at him in accusation and they feel like weapons in his hands. He looks to Sansa, a question on his lips that she reads in an instant.

“When I wrote to the Lord Commander to tell him that you were convalescing at Winterfell, I requested that any of your correspondence be sent to me. A rider arrived earlier today, but you were still out with the hunting party. Given the storm, I’m shocked that they made it to Castle Black at all.”

The fear Jon feels is immediate and powerful, but it greets him as an old friend. Any manner of terrible news could be waiting under the ugly wax seal. Perhaps Daenerys has found him out; perhaps an army marches on the North as he waits for the courage to find out. He cannot shake the irrational feeling that opening the scrolls will breathe these terrible possibilities to life. Sansa watches him carefully but doesn’t press. She only steps towards him and with a cool hand, brushes the snow from his hair and removes his cloak. Her voice is small when she offers to leave, if he’d prefer, and he can’t think of anything he wants less than to be left alone with his thoughts. He leans his forehead against hers, the request for her to stay implicit in the gesture.

He sinks onto her bed and tears open each scroll, feeling bile rising in his throat the more he reads. Sansa stands a distance away. She makes no move to approach and the wringing of her hands is the only sign of her apprehension.

“Daenerys has given birth to a child. A daughter. Mine, my daughter.”

“Oh,” Sansa says, with all the interest of someone who’s been told that it will snow tonight or that dinner will be served late.

“Is that all you have to say?”

She casts her eyes towards him, yet she seems to only see through him.

“What would you have me say?” It pains him that, after everything, she has become aloof once again. If only he could crack open her skull and peer at the contents of her mind, he might know better how to express himself. He reaches for her hand and the contact makes her jump.

“I swear I didn’t know.” He didn’t know Daenerys was with child, he didn’t know he would wind up in Winterfell, he didn’t know that what existed between him and Sansa would grow to the point of consuming both of them.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow,_ a voice whispers in the back of his mind.

Sansa’s lips twist upwards into something more grimace than smile.

“Does it make me terrible that I don’t care? I would have had you, regardless. Even now, I am incapable of loving you less.”

“You should,” he responds, “I have fathered a child with my own aunt. I have dishonoured you.” His deepest shame, made flesh by his weakness.

Sansa snorts indelicately and he looks at her, shocked.

“Oh please, Jon! Have you tricked me into bed? Do you think me incapable of making my own educated decisions?”

“Of course not – ”

“ – Well then at some point you will have to acknowledge that my choices are mine alone! I have chosen to love you and no matter how much you hate yourself, you cannot make me hate you, Jon, and I will not let you try.”

He threads his fingers through hers and she squeezes his hand. She steps into the cradle of his legs and runs her free hand through his hair. He sighs and leans his head against her stomach.

“I am sorry, Sansa, for everything,” he mumbles into the felted wool of her dress.

“I know,” she murmurs, “At daybreak, you will leave, as we both knew you would eventually, but for tonight you are still mine. There is no place in my bed for self-loathing or heartbreak, only for you and me.”

******

As promised, dawn finds him in the courtyard. At least he has been able to offer proper goodbyes to Davos, Sam, and Gilly the night prior, because it’s far too early to ask any of them to brave the cold and see him off. No, that obligation falls only to Ghost, Bran, and Sansa. Dressed in his dark furs, Bran looks almost like a shadow. A sharp contradiction He to the snowdrifts that surround them. Much like their first reunion, Jon drops a kiss to the crown of Bran’s head, but his brother surprises him by reaching out to grab his wrist before he turns away. There is something in the flicker of his eyes – a familiar light – that makes Jon pause.

“Until we meet again.” 

Bran’s as cryptic as ever, but with an unprecedented sincerity. Jon’s not quite sure what to make of it.

Ghost butts at Jon’s hand insistently and he kneels, pressing his face into the thick fur of the direwolf’s neck. This time, he does not intend to send his wolf anywhere that isn’t at Sansa’s side. He rises until he is face to face with her. Even though the courtyard is still mostly empty at this hour, she’s in her full regalia; from her circlet down to her Stark grey dress, embroidered with black, white, and red direwolves gamboling in the snow.

Leaving her is immeasurably crueller now that he has a better understanding of his loss, now that he knows what life at her side would be like. A life where he only ever leaves her with the knowledge of his guaranteed return. He pulls her into his arms and she grasps fiercely at his furs.

“I lov – ”

“Please, Jon, I cannot bear to hear you say it as though it is the last time,” she pleads.

He nods and instead tilts his head towards her to kiss her tenderly on the mouth. Actions, Jon has always felt, speak volumes louder than words. If any of the stablehands bear witness to the Prince Consort of the Six Kingdoms kissing the Queen in the North, they do not speak of it.

Jon has left Winterfell three times, twice at the behest of the Dragon Queen, and now he will do it again. The last time, he had not looked back, so certain he’d been that he would die and that if he looked, his last memory of his family would be the looks of disappointment on their faces. This time he cannot help but look. His mind and soul so tethered to this place that, were it not for the horse carrying his body ever forward, he might not have the strength to leave. Yet he must. So he marches south again, towards the unknown and a daughter that he prays to do right by. In the center of the courtyard, Sansa stands tall and stalwart, dressed in a love letter for a man who could never hope to deserve her. Despite his certainty of purpose, he watches her red hair whipping in the wind and knows with the utmost clarity that there will always be a part of him that hungers for this, for her, and for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, we return to the present and King's Landing to see what our two favourite bozos in love are up to.


	3. If you must weep, do it right here in my bed as I sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of forgiveness and fidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote Staind, "It's been awhile."
> 
> A big thank you to everyone still keeping up with this fic and everyone who's left kudos and lovely comments. You make me smile.

_ They say he looks like Ned Stark, but a mother knows.  _

_ He looks like his father, he looks like you. _

__

******

__

Jon will never, for the rest of his days, forget the feeling of being stabbed by his brothers. Even now, he can feel the scars like open wounds. That pain is nothing compared to the knife Sansa has thrust into his heart. 

“ _You lied_.”

“Jon, please, I – ”

“– You wrote of Robb as though he was newly-born, but he must have been at least half a year old!”

“I know. I know,” she concedes, swiping angrily at her eyes. “But I couldn’t... You had to know, but you couldn’t know all of it. Your letters pass through endless hands before they reach yours. If I hadn’t obscured the truth, someone would have understood what it meant.”

“That's why you stopped writing,” he realizes aloud. Everything is suddenly so painfully clear.

“It was too dangerous, or at least that’s what I told myself. The truth is that it hurt too much. To know that I would have to lie to you in every letter. Pretend Robb’s father was just some strange, unimportant man, that he was conceived out of anything less than love.”

“But Sansa, nine years. Nine fucking years! How could you never have told me?”

“You had just returned to be with Daenerys and your newborn daughter. What was I to do, Jon? March to King’s Landing with a babe on my hip – the proof of our misdeeds – and demand that she return you to me? Was I to start another war so that you might know your son? I’ll not have Robb played like a pawn in a game he has no part in.”

“This is not a game, Sansa! He is my son! He deserved to know me and I deserved to know him.” He is helplessly caught in the memories of a boy with a father who’d never been his to claim and a mother who’d never been more than a ghost. 

“Does he know? Who his father is?”

Sansa frames his face in her hands. He does not feel the tears fall, but her fingers still smooth away the tracks they leave on his cheeks.

“Of course he does, Jon. I would never do to him what our father did to you. Even if his intentions were noble, I know how deeply you were hurt and I would never cause our son that pain.”

_ Our  _ son. 

“And what of now? Will I ever get to know him?”

The idea of having to beg Sansa to see his son is unimaginable, but, then again, the idea of her lying to him had been as well. Trust hadn’t come easy to either of them. It had taken work to build it, brick by brick, but it had felt unbreachable once there. How could he have been so wrong? Something Daenerys once said sticks in his mind _._ __ _ She's not the girl you grew up with. Not after what she's seen, not after what they've done to her.  _ It had rung false at the time, an unforgivable thing to say, but what if Daenerys had seen something he hadn’t. _You know her_ , he reminds himself. _Sansa is Sansa. She would never purposefully hurt you, she was only doing what she thought was best_. He reaches up to cover her hands, where they still rest on his cheeks, trying desperately to ground himself through her steady presence. _Sansa is Sansa_ , he repeats until he feels like he can breathe again.

“That’s part of why I came. Things are not as precarious as they were. The North has known peace since its independence and there is... stability here in the South. If Daenerys would let you visit, we would have you.” 

Under the cradle of his hands, her thumbs travel the planes of his face. 

“He is beloved in the North and he will always be safe there, but you must understand that I cannot and will not bring him here.”

Of course he understands. He’d been furious when he first learned that Sansa had been made to return to this place she’d barely escaped. If he’d had his way she’d still be safe in Winterfell, far away from the threatening maws of dragons, be they beast or queen.

“I don't know that I could bear a life not knowing him, Sansa,” he says softly.

“I promise that I do not intend to keep you from him. I know you must resent me for my deception. Was it right to trade your pain for the safety of you and our son? I cannot say, but if I erred, it was only out of love for the both of you. I hope you can forgive me.”

Jon tries to imagines Sansa holding her newborn babe, the living legacy of someone she loved and a child with a credible claim to all seven kingdoms. He pictures her face, tired and drawn, as she ponders over which lie would best protect her son, no matter the personal cost. Ever her noble father’s daughter.

Now she looks at him with nervous eyes trying to deduce whether she’s sacrificed his love in the bargain. It does not soothe his hurt or the loss he feels, but it does make the bitterness seep out of him. In its stead, he finds only an awareness of how cruel it is to judge Sansa for the choices he left her to make alone.

He wraps his arms around her tightly, fingers brushing against the soft material of her shift where the laces of her dress still hang loose. 

“Of course I can. I do,” he says before releasing her from his grasp once again.

The tension finally seems to leave her shoulders. Sansa looks more beautiful smiling than anyone should have the right to and Jon feels an odd sort of jealousy towards the rest of his family, who get to witness it frequently. A thought occurs to him abruptly. 

“Does our family know?” He isn’t sure why the thought of Arya knowing shames him, but it does all the same.

Sensing his trepidation, her reply is gentle. “Yes. It would have been impossible to hide it from the likes Bran, Sam, or Gilly.”

“And how could Jaime and Brienne not know?” he interjects, “That at least explains why they look at me like I’m a criminal.” 

“Others were more of a surprise. I never told Arya about us, but she took one look at Robb and she knew straight away.”

“What did she say?”

Sansa sighs. “She was angry. Angry that we’d been so stupid and angry that I’d kept it from her. I think she was more upset with me than she was with you. You’ve always been her favourite,” she adds with a rueful smile.

Arya’s correspondence varies greatly in its frequency, but the tone of her letters has never changed. Her messy cursive never held any indication of a soured opinion. He hopes that after everything, what Sansa said holds true.

“She’s had time to get used to the idea and she’s come around – with Gendry’s help, I’m sure. She loves Robb and she loves us both. She understands or tries to. Naturally, that does nothing to stop her teasing. Her latest diversion is calling him ‘Little Crow’ – a nickname I’ve tried a thousand times to get Tormund to stop using – and I know she only does it to annoy me... ” she trails off when she catches the look on his face.

Slowly, he asks, “Sansa, if Tormund knows the truth of his parentage, how many others do?”

She lifts her chin high in challenge.

“It is the subject of some gossip, I won’t deny that, but I have been careful. The only people who know can be trusted to keep our secret.”

“A secret? How many people can know something before it stops being so?”

“They are loyal to me, Jon,” she insists passionately. “And still loyal to you. In the songs, they say his father is a wolf and that is what they’ll tell anyone who dares to ask.”

She wraps one hand around the back of his neck and he lets out a rush of air in response to her firm grip. Strands of her hair float on his breath and twist about her fierce eyes, which flit back and forth between his own.

“It’s the truth isn’t it?” she asks, even though it is the furthest thing from a question.

Her eyes, her boldness, the quirk of her lips. All of it tugs at something that lives so deep inside him that it may well be part of his bones. A pull that is stronger than the tangled mess of emotions roiling in his gut, threatening to upend him at any moment. If his thoughts are a maelstrom, then there is Sansa, standing amidst the fray and begging him ashore towards the only thing he’s ever been sure of. 

“Aye, it is,” he rasps and pulls her back into his arms. When he kisses her, it’s half reprieve half retribution. This time, there is no hesitation on either of their parts and he thrills at the gasp she releases when her back hits the heart tree. One of his hands fists into her silky hair, scraping against the rough oak bark. The neck of her gown gapes open in invitation and he slides his other hand down the front to palm her breast. The moan she muffles in the crook of his neck is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard and the urge to taste her again is powerful and undeniable. He drops to his knees. 

If anyone were to wander past, they might think that he was about to swear his sword to her. Maybe he should have bent the knee to her right there in the courtyard of Castle Black. Although he doubts that would have deterred Daenerys’ command that he do the same for her. He could have sworn himself to Sansa when they reunited in Winterfell, but he’d known he’d have to return south eventually and he was tired of breaking vows. If he can’t give her that, then he can at least give her this. A devotional to be offered at a different altar.

He rucks up her skirts and tugs down her smallclothes, which she eagerly kicks off into the brush somewhere behind him. Holding her stiff skirts up with his shoulders, he coaxes one of her stockinged legs to join. His beard rubs against the tender skin of her inner thigh and he watches it turn pink. He repeats the motion with purpose, hoping that she’ll still feel it later. The thought of her shifting in her chair and thinking of his mouth on her as they dine together in the Great Hall makes him smile broadly. He nips at her thigh, just hard enough to leave a mark. _A wolf indeed_.

“I’ve thought about your cunt every day for the last nine years,” he says, mostly to himself. Although her skirts muffle his voice, she must still hear him because she sighs and he hears her hand searching up the tree for purchase.

Jon noses through her folds and the scent of her makes it impossible not to think of the last time, too long ago, that his head had been between her thighs. His thumbs stroke the creases between her hip and thigh, pulling her more flush against his mouth, and he licks up her center in a broad stroke. Sansa threads the fingers of one hand into his hair just as he slides two fingers into her and when he sucks at the most sensitive part of her, her nails rake across his scalp. Back in Winterfell – back when they’d had the time for it – Jon would have drawn this out until Sansa could stand no more and would pull him back to her mouth. He would have kissed her senseless; tongue and teeth exploring every part of her that he could reach. He would have teased her, would have brought her to the edge and then withdrawn, chuckling at her frustrated huffs and the insistent press of her heels against his back. There is no time for any of that now and neither is he sure that he could withstand the wait. Instead, he sups at her cunt like a starving man. 

With tongue and fingers, he works her towards her peak rougher than usual, but Sansa gladly urges him on. Somewhere in the back of his mind thoughts still swirl. There many things still to consider about Sansa, their son, and the precarious position they now find themselves in. For the moment, however, nothing can take precedence over the feeling of her soft skin against his cheek or the way her legs shake when she comes apart above him. He wipes his mouth on her thigh before rising to meet her, wincing only slightly at the tightness of her grip on his hair.

Boneless against the heart tree, Sansa’s a vision. She’s flushed from the tips of her ears down to the top of her breasts, which strain against her shift, and the pupils of her eyes are blown wide. She flattens a hand primly against her stomach, trying in vain to slow her breathing. Her other hand makes no move to release its grasp from his curls. She looks at him and laughs.

“Fuck,” is all she can get out and Jon’s eyes go as wide as saucers. Somehow, hearing her curse makes him harder than anything else has. More laughter bubbles up, crisp like fresh snow, and his heart feels too large for his chest. Nine long years in King’s Landing, away from Winterfell and away from her, but it has done nothing to temper his love for her. Not even the still-fresh sting of her deception can keep it from burning so brightly now.

Sansa tugs at his hair and drags him into a deep kiss. 

“I have dearly missed your mouth, Jon Snow.”

His lips stretch into a smug smile and the fondness he feels when she rolls her eyes at his obvious self-satisfaction is as instinctual as breathing. 

“Is that all?” he inquires.

She leisurely unlaces his breeches. “Is there more to miss?”

“My Queen wounds me,” he finishes in a stutter; distracted by the hand she slips down his breeches to stroke him.

“Then prove yourself worthy, my _King_.” She draws out the word, knowing exactly what she’s doing to him.

“San _sa_ ,” he practically whines. Perhaps he should be ashamed of his need for her or by the knowledge that there may be no betrayal powerful enough to overcome it. But Sansa has made certain that there are no secrets left between them and if there were, his desire for her would not be one. Why be ashamed of something he accepted long ago. It hums between them like a force of nature, a spark set to tinder every time she smiles at him the wolfish way that she does now.

Sansa removes her hand to hike up her skirts, while he pushes down his breeches, neither of them leisurely anymore. He runs his hands up the back of her legs and hoists her up so that she is pinned between his body and the heart tree. Her legs wrap around him on instinct and when he finally, _finally,_ slides into her, it’s the most glorious homecoming. It’s been too long and neither of them seems keen to set anything but a brutal pace. He kisses up her neck and down her chest, sucking at her exposed skin. “You can’t,” she pants, “It’ll leave marks.” With a growl, he tears himself away to find her mouth again. Jon feels himself growing more undone with every thrust and when Sansa begs, “Harder,” it is almost enough to send him over the edge right then and there. There is a sort of catharsis in their wildness. Their bodies working in tandem to seek a release that their minds have not yet found. His name is a chant on her lips, breathy and perfect, and before long he comes with a groan, spending inside of her without a second thought.

They cling to each other a moment longer, catching their breath. Eventually, she lowers her feet back to the ground and kisses him lightly. She slips away and by the time she comes back with her missing smallclothes and his jerkin, his clothes are done up and he looks somewhat presentable. She turns her back to him for a confusing moment, before looking over her shoulder.

“Well, come on! You undid them and now you can do them back up,” she says, tartly.

He huffs out a laugh and begins to lace her dress. Sansa is silent and he knows that her mind is working on plans he will always be ten steps behind. He’s combing out the knots in her hair when she speaks again.

“We can’t afford to keep being this reckless.” The tension returns to her spine, word by word. Her posture is so rigid that, were she alive, Septa Mordane would be proud. Still, when he ghosts his fingertips against the nape of her neck, she leans into his touch.

“Daenerys likely has spies all over the keep. She is unpredictable and we don’t know what she might do if she finds out. We have to be smarter than Father, than Robb.” _Than me_ , he thinks. She whirls around in his arms and looks up at him, the concern evident on her face. 

“I won’t watch you burn, Jon, and we must protect our son above all else. Promise me!”

He places a closed-mouth kiss to her brow. “I promise to do my best, Sansa.” He leans his forehead against hers and she nuzzles her nose against his. “But I still have so many questions.”

It would be so easy to kiss her. A minute tilt of the head and his lips would be on hers. Nonetheless, they both just pull apart and the burden of all the things yet discussed fills the air between them like smoke from a dying fire.

Her eyes, blue like the summer sky above them, are earnest. “I swear to answer all your questions,” she says, “and we must also devise a plan to stop this betrothal. Where can we meet? My chambers won’t do, Daenerys’ handmaids are no doubt waiting to spill my every secret.”

“We can meet in mine.” As clarification, he adds, “My apartments are above the kitchens and they are unguarded.”

If Sansa has something to say about the Prince Consort being exiled from the royal apartments, she must think better of it. Surely, she can surmise why Daenerys might want him out of sight.

“Could you meet me there after the feast?”

She nods.

They walk towards the entrance of the godswood until Jaime and Brienne come into view. The light of the newly-risen sun reflects off their armour so that they almost glow. Ghost trots dutifully behind Jon, his allegiances having switched to his old master for the time being. Jon’s hair is still mussed and Sansa’s gown is deeply wrinkled. Anyone with eyes might know what has transpired between them. This time, he does not begrudge Sansa’s knights their glares. Before they reach them, Jon tugs at an embroidered direwolf on Sansa’s skirts, drawing her attention back to him.

“I like the wolf bit.”

******

In the hours that pass between dawn and the feast, Jon has ample time to remember the last time he had tried to keep his feelings for Sansa from making him reckless. He also remembers what an utter failure it had been. Unfortunately for them both, his capacity for restraint has not improved in the intervening years.

In his defence, Sansa is making things unnecessarily difficult. That bloody _dress_. He’d nearly choked on his ale when her arrival to the Great Hall had first been announced. The dress itself is beautiful, to be sure. It gleams silver in the torchlight and her sleeves fall back whenever she reaches for a sip of wine, which offers him a glimpse of the weirwood leaves embroidered along their interior. The red and black thread is vivid against the grey silk. _Targaryen colours_. It’s likely only meant as a gesture of goodwill and friendship, but it continues to catch his eye as if meant for him.

None of that is the problem, though. It’s the bodice of her dress that is the tricky part. The front of her gown crosses over itself and fashions, what Jon feels, is an obscenely low neckline. A more objective eye might determine the neckline practically modest in comparison to the gowns that regularly circulate in southron court. Daenerys herself sits to his right wearing a far more revealing outfit, but there’s just something to seeing Sansa so uncharacteristically exposed that makes it all feel like so much _more._

He’d done his best to control himself, truly he had. Jon may not be an expert at the game, but he understands something of strategy and Sansa hadn’t been wrong when she’d urged caution. He quietly observes Daenerys’ taut smiles and quickening temper and feels himself being observed by Tyrion in return. This isn’t the time to arouse their suspicions, but the night has grown long – Alysanne was dragged off to bed by her septa long ago – and he can’t seem to keep his eyes from wandering to the alluring curve of Sansa’s breasts. Her hair has been pulled to one side to create an endless expanse of pale, delectable flesh that seems perfectly designed to torment him.

His gaze must be visibly heated because when Sansa catches him looking, she offers only a small shake of her head. When she turns back, however, he can see her smiling into her cup of Dornish red. Jon reaches for his tankard of ale and Sansa looks to Tyrion, who sits between her and Daenerys. From this angle, he can see the colour in her cheeks and the way her eyes shine as she laughs prettily at something the man has said. _What are they discussing so animatedly? Why is she laughing?_ _Why is this music so bloody loud?_

His preoccupation with Sansa has distracted him to the point that he has to disguise his shock when he realizes that Daenerys is looking at him impatiently. She’s obviously just been speaking to him, but he has no idea what she’s said. The expectant arch of her silver brows tells him that she’s awaiting an answer and he quickly hums a vague ascent. That’s generally what she wants from him anyway and, indeed, she seems mollified. Before Daenerys has a chance to share what exactly he’s agreed to, Yara Greyjoy approaches the high table to discuss some urgent trading matter. Yara would never be caught dead in a gown, but she cuts a fine figure in her formal doublet and leathers. As quickly as Daenerys’ attention turned to him, it shifts away. Jon takes another sip of ale and thanks whatever gods are listening for sending Yara this way.

By now, the feast has reached the point where even the most proper lords and ladies find themselves a little less restrained under the influence of good food and drink. Backed by musicians, a minstrel sings about the many exploits of the Mother of Dragons and feet pound the floor in time; a game of politics disguised as dancing. Raucous as it is, if Jon concentrates, he can faintly hear Sansa and Tyrion’s conversation over the din. Tyrion’s eyes are glossy and his face ruddy, no doubt flushed from the near ceaseless flow of wine into his cup. It’s hardly surprising. Since Daenerys’ coronation, he’s drunk more often than not. Perhaps he does it to forget that he is trapped in the company of people he’s come to despise. Or perhaps he does it to dull the guilt of letting civilians burn for the cost of an empty crown. If it is the latter, Jon hopes that there is no wineskin deep enough to grant him relief.

As it so often does, the drink loosens Tyrion’s tongue. A muscle in Jon’s jaw jumps when Tyrion places a hand on Sansa’s arm and says, “How strange it is to think that if we had stayed married, Robb might have been my son.”

Sansa smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yes,” she replies too kindly, “Perhaps in another life.”

“You know, I don’t think anyone has ever exceeded my expectations as you have. You were only a child when we were married and, make no mistake, I would have never, well, I mean...” 

The man Jon now watches trip over his tongue shares little with the version of Tyrion that Sansa had once described as the cleverest man she’d ever met. Sansa only smiles and smiles and he wonders if her cheeks ever tire.

“It would seem my silver tongue is of no use when speaking with someone that I truly admire.” Tyrion chuckles in that way he thinks is charming but that makes Jon’s fingers itch. “All that to say that I always thought you would make some lord an excellent wife. It is a shame that you are still unmarried –”

Jon stands so quickly that his chair scrapes noisily against the stone floor. The sound is barely loud enough to be heard over the music, but those nearest to the high table still stop and stare. Sansa’s glare is so withering that, for a moment, she could be her mother.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, I need some fresh air,” he manages. Daenerys waves him off with little more than a roll of her eyes. The Prince Consort leaving a feast early is a common enough occurrence that it no longer makes for interesting discussion and no whispers or stray glances follow his exit. In the outer courtyard, Jon paces and frowns up at the stars, which shimmer hazily through the smoke from the kitchens. There’s no reprieve to be found out here; the air in King’s Landing is never fresh and he finds it especially stifling tonight. He is in complete disarray and he’d been so fucking foolish to think that, after what he and Sansa had done in the godswood, he could be anything but. 

So much life has passed since his time in Winterfell. It’s left him harder in some ways and softer in others, but no one could deny that it has matured him into someone solid and measured. Yet one look at Sansa and he feels so young and uncertain, like the man he was when he sat by her side. A man young enough to hope that he might still evade the sword swinging down towards his neck and be able to take her hand in his and finally _rest_. Worst of all, sometimes he looks at her and feels younger still, like the boy who despite knowing better, still dreamed of a keep of his own and a gentle lady wife to look after. These shades of his former self whisper in his ear, growing more insistent every time his mind drifts back to Sansa. He’d done just as Maester Aemon had said. He’d killed the boy again and again so that he might survive, but now, as these dusty old parts of him unfurl anew, he can’t help but wonder if all he’s accomplished is making himself a hollow man. A dam has been rent – there’s no way back – and the only person he wants to talk about this with is Sansa, yet he can’t do that. He’s so far gone that he can’t even remember what it was like not to know how to want her and he’s much too far gone to watch helplessly while Tyrion does it so freely.

Jon sighs, suddenly exhausted. Perhaps he should just return to his chambers and wait for her since he’s clearly of no use here. He makes it nearly halfway when someone pushes him into the shadowed passageway next to the granary. His hand flies to where Longclaw should be, but he hasn’t been permitted to carry his sword in years. Reduced to a common thief, he’d stolen one of the larger paring knives from the kitchen and hidden it in his boot, but before he can even reach for that, a soft body is pressed up against him and an accusatory finger is pointed in his face.

“You are incorrigible!” Sansa hisses at him. “You have to,” she licks her lips, “to stop _gazing_ at me, Jon.” She’s positively fuming at him, lips pursed. 

“What am I to do, Sansa?” he whispers back. “You tell me to be smart and then you breeze in here in that scrap of a gown like some fucking... temptress!” His cheeks burn at how petulant he sounds. Sansa has the good grace not to laugh, but the way she’s biting down on her lip tells him that it’s a near thing.

“I don’t know, but it can’t continue. It’s untoward!” She looks scandalized and it’s not dissimilar to the look that, as children, Arya would earn whenever she would dirty her dress in the training yard or skip her embroidery lessons. 

“And you can’t just get upset and leave whenever a man speaks to me. How do you suppose that looks?”

He bristles at that. Struggling and failing to keep the irritation from his voice, he says, “Sansa, that wasn’t just some man paying you a meaningless compliment. Tyrion is only of one mind where you’re concerned.”

“How would you know what he wants? From what I hear the two of you barely speak. Is it so impossible to think that he might be trying to be kind?” Sansa scoffs.

“Not him, not with you! His designs on you couldn’t be more obvious.”

“So then is it that you think me incapable of handling him on my own?”

“No, that’s not – ” 

“ – I’ve fended off worse than Tyrion and I’m not some naive little girl in need of protection!”

“Yes,” he bursts out, “but I don’t have to sit by and watch him make advances on my – ” 

_ Wife. _

He stops himself just short of saying it, but the word is so conspicuous on his tongue that it need not be spoken for Sansa to hear. Her eyebrows creep up towards her hairline and her wide eyes shine like dark stars. A complicated series of emotions play across them, but it is too hard to make out in the dim light.

Finally, she speaks, “I am no man’s wife, nor will I ever be. The only man I would wed could never have me.”

“Oh fuck all that,” he exclaims, before he can think better of it. “Fuck the laws and fuck the gods!”

“Jon, you’re mad!” 

She presses her fingertips against his lips to quiet him, but his clarity has made him bolder than good sense should allow. He takes her hand and kisses her wrist before moving it aside.

“Sansa, I think about you constantly. About your safety, your well-being, and your happiness. I would kill for you. I would die for you. I love you. Does that not make you my wife in all the ways that matter?”

He eagerly accepts the weight of her body as she pushes him back against the granary wall and slants her mouth against his. _I am yours and you are mine_. There is no heart tree, but they are vows all the same. He kisses down the side of her neck, one hand at her waist and the other sliding under the revealing neckline of her dress to cup her breast. This is stupid and dangerous and Sansa will be right to scold them both for it later, but at the moment – with his hands up her dress and her rubbing him through the front of his breeches – he can’t find it in himself to care.

A noise in the distance makes them break apart. It’s only a drunken reveller and they’re much too far away to possibly notice Jon and Sansa, but it’s enough and she steps away from him.

“I’ve already been gone for too long, they’ll miss me in the hall,” she says, straightening her dress. She leans forward to reach behind him and he realizes that she is tying back his hair, which must have come loose from shifting against the rough stone wall. The intimacy of the gesture makes him feel impossibly warm. He wonders if Lady Catelyn ever did this for their lord father.

“You should come back inside. Dance with the queen and charm your courtiers. I know you are more than capable of doing so.” She glances at him over her shoulder, backlit by the glow of the Great Hall in the distance. “I will come to your chambers later,” she promises with a devastating smile, leaving him bewildered, hard, and alone.

He waits in that passageway for a good long while until his blood cools. If Sansa had scolded him for staring, he can only imagine what she might do if he walks back into the hall with tented breeches. While he tarries, he overhears quite a few interesting conversations. This must be how it felt to be one of Varys’ little birds. The things they must have heard when lords’ and ladies’ tongues were loosened by wine and the seductive illusion of privacy. The longer he thinks on Varys, the closer his mind travels to that dark beach and to watching in silent terror as the flames licked at Varys’ skin. Instead, he wonders if their current master of whisperers creeps around this way to gather her secrets. _No_ , he thinks _, Arianne Martell needs only to flash her dazzling smile and alight her sloe-eyed gaze on a man to know the truth of his mind._ He’s witnessed her effects on all manner of men and women first hand and he’s beyond grateful that she’s never thought him worth extracting information from. Jon’s not sure he wants to know how well he’d fare under her scrutiny.

When he’s had enough of court gossip, he does exactly as Sansa asked. He returns to the feast, drinks some more ale, and even feigns interest in the petty concerns of various arrogant lordlings. The naked gratitude on Daenerys’ face when he asks her to dance almost makes him feel guilty. He’s well aware that there are certain expectations when it comes to these events, but normally he sulks until he’s had enough ale to stop caring. He’s not ignorant of how unbecoming his behaviour is, but he cannot help but find a vindictive sort of joy in these small acts of rebellion. The simple truth is that he enjoys making things difficult for her and for Tyrion, who usually has to do the dirty work of persuading him. All three of them dance around each other in weary circles, like wounded animals determined not to show weakness. Nothing is ever easy.

Even in Daenerys’ unusually pliant grasp, his eyes can’t help but track Sansa as she moves through the hall. He watches out of the corner of his eye as she speaks to Robin Arryn, who looks as pale and waxy as ever, before moving on to a seemingly delighted Arianne. Travelling across the dance floor, he loses sight of her momentarily and finds her again having a somber conversation with Yara. Daenerys asks him to join her in a second dance and he agrees without complaint. He observes Sansa over Daenerys’ shoulder as she joins the dance, partnering with Addam Wylde. He’s careful to keep the scowl off his face, but that doesn’t stop the flood of jealousy. Addam is tall, broad, fair-haired, and unattached; exactly the kind of man that Sansa had fantasized about as a girl. The kind of man she deserves.

His only consolation is Sansa’s eyes, hot and piercing, meeting his at every turn. The heat in her gaze warms him faster than the ale in his belly and he finds his patience dwindling exponentially for every bat of her lashes. It becomes something of a game: to find her, catch her eye, and maybe brush his fingers against the small of her back if no one nearby is paying them any mind. The next time he comes across her she whispers in a low voice, “Go back to your chambers and wait for me.” There is a warning in her tone and something else, something headier. 

****** 

Ghost lies in front of Jon’s empty hearth and the sudden forward cant of his ears is the only indication that someone is approaching. When Ghost does not move, Jon knows that it can only be Sansa outside. After they had taken Winterfell back from the Boltons, Jon had first noticed his direwolf’s uncanny ability to recognize and track her scent just about anywhere in the keep and beyond. Wolf and man are alike in that regard. Jon thinks he would recognize her anywhere in the world.

A light rap at the door precedes Sansa’s entrance by mere moments. She slips inside, quiet as a mouse, and bolts the door behind her. Her flaming hair is tucked under a light cloak, which she promptly shrugs off. Disappointment courses through him as he notes the plain brown dress she is wearing beneath. He had so been looking forward to peeling that provocative gown off her eager body, but, of course, she’d have been far too recognizable sneaking across the Red Keep in a dress that hundreds had seen her wear. The hand she flattens over his chest halts his rise from the bed and she pushes him back down with surprising strength. Her eyes blaze.

“How dare you torment me like that, Jon Snow!” He watches amazed as she starts feverishly pulling at her laces. It has been a long time since he has riled her like this, but his blood thrums with the memory of what usually follows.

“Staring at me, touching me,” she says, sliding her arms out of her sleeves and letting her dress drop to the floor, “You are an intractable cad.”

His fingers, fumbling for his excitement with the ties of his breeches, are proof enough of that.

“Are you here to punish me?” He’s pushing his luck, but maybe that’s exactly what he wants.

She’s scowling at him, but the set of her mouth is softened by the lack of any real ire. She rucks up her shift and straddles his lap.

“No, I think not. You’d enjoy it too much.” All pretense is gone and she smiles broadly against his lips.

It’s different than it was in the godswood. They have the time to reacquaint themselves properly with one another. He languorously pulls her shift over her head and removes her stockings, one by one, measuring the endless length of her legs with closed-mouth kisses. All the while, he skates his fingers over her familiar scars – faded by the passing of years – and then lower to her abdomen, where there are new marks, made pale silver by the flickering candlelight. Where he was overwhelmed before, now he is deliberate and methodical. He studies Sansa with more care than even the most dedicated Maester in the Citadel has shown his scholarship. He commits every moan and movement to memory, juxtaposes them with those that have been his constant companions these long years, and draws a map of the life she has lived in his arms and in his absence.

Afterwards, they lie alongside each other in silence for some time, her head near the bottom of his bed and his near her ribs. Her company has been so profoundly missed; he could spend hours in silence, completely sated by the knowledge of her presence beside him. It is near impossible not to mourn the years he has lost with her, years that fell victim to the steady march of time and the constant turning of the wheel. Eventually, he fills the silence with questions about Robb. 

He learns that his son loves to ride, but dislikes his lessons – though Sansa sees to it that he still attends them diligently – and that Robb is as quick with an embrace as he is to anger. A trait he shares with Alysanne. Sansa tells him stories about how a young Robb used to beg Bran to sit him on his lap and take him for rides around the keep and how, recently, he has taken to trailing after Podrick – Winterfell’s latest master-at-arms – in the training yard trying to mirror his every step.

“What was it like,” he asks, smoothing a hand across her flat stomach, “being with child?” _Being alone_ , he leaves unspoken. Sansa rolls onto her front, humming pensively while Jon strokes a hand up her back.

“I didn’t know for a long time. We were still in the throes of winter and I was sick and hungry like everyone else. I completely missed any signs. Sam suspected though and he took me aside, very reticently of course,” she laughs fondly at the memory. There is a pang in his chest when he thinks of how many of her memories he has no part in.

“He explained his concerns to me and informed me of what to look for. I didn’t believe him at first. We had taken precautions, but, well, I confess I was not as diligent as I should have been.” She sighs, “I am sorry, Jon. After my second marriage, I suspected something might have been wrong with me – that I was unable – and then my duties kept me so busy... I was careless.” 

With Sansa facing away from him like this, he cannot easily see her face, but her voice has grown small. He tucks himself tighter into her side, resting a cheek on the small of her back.

“Hells, Sansa, I was only too happy to place that responsibility on your shoulders. I don’t blame you for any of it. My only regret is that I fathered a bastard and then left his mother to fend for herself.”

“You make it sound so bleak, but the truth is that between Sam, Gilly, and the rest of them, I never knew a single moment’s peace. I never wanted for anything and from the moment I first felt Robb move within me, I was never alone again. As for his status, Robb is a Stark of Winterfell. The circumstances of his birth do not change that."

"Besides,” she says, looking back at him over her bare shoulder, eyes warm, “I would have a dozen bastards so long as they were yours.”

“A dozen! Sansa, I am but a man, be reasonable!” She flings a silk stocking at him and he laughs deeply.

“You insufferable northern fool,” she reprimands. Any seriousness she might attempt is undercut by her own laughter. “In any case, the North is much changed. The Great Houses were in such a state of disrepair after the wars, many natural sons have risen to land and title. It is not like it was when we were children.”

He reaches a hand up to sift her silky hair through his fingers. “Still, how odd it is to think that Arya is married when you and I, well... ”

Sansa turns back over suddenly. Facing her once again, he can fully absorb the mirth dancing in her blue eyes.

“I never said that they were married.” There was a time when she would have uttered such a provocative statement in horror and now she derives amusement from his shock.

“We Starks are a scandalous bunch, aren’t we?” he responds, taken aback for a moment by the way she beams at him like he’s hung the moon.

_ We  _ Starks.

The calloused pads of his fingers ghost over the curve of her jaw.

“I’ve not forgotten what father used to say. The pack survives. Now tell me how shall we protect ours?”

Her answering smile calls to something primal deep within, a wolf howling to another.


	4. If you must wait, wait for them here in my arms as I shake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of plans and pretenses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, whoops, I added another chapter, but I figure two shorter chapters are better than one 20k+ word one.
> 
> Also, I made some executive decisions about who was left alive in Dorne and have no regrets.

The plan had sounded so simple when he and Sansa had laid it out that first night. Safely ensconced in the haven of his sheets and her arms, their predicament had felt, for the first time, like a question with an answer.

The betrothal between Robb and Alysanne must be broken, that much is abundantly clear. Likewise clear is the importance of doing so without instigating a diplomatic crisis. Not an easy thing to accomplish, considering the fraught relationship between the North and the Six Kingdoms, which dislike and rely upon each other in equal measure. To say nothing of the personal rancour between their two queens. 

No, that part will be difficult no matter what, but the problem of how to approach Daenerys is one to be solved later. For it to even come to that, they need a proposal with which to approach her in the first place. The cost of losing Robb Stark as a potential match for Alysanne will be high, but both he and Sansa had agreed that the only way to defray it was to present Daenerys with a different – _better_ – option. Perhaps even one she’d already considered herself and would, therefore, be much more amenable to.

Jon sighs and squints against the bright sunlight streaming through his window. The kitchens below are bustling and he’s grateful for the noise. The oppressive quiet of his empty apartments would do him no good at present. Still barefoot, he pads over to the washbasin quietly enough that Ghost does not stir. The water is cold and bracing and he’s grateful for that too. For the way it feels on his too-warm face and for the way it clears his mind.

Finding that better option is where the real work begins.

_ “Do you have any notion of who Daenerys considered before Robb?”  _

_ Sansa’s voice had been muffled, cheek nestled against his ribs. Still, it might as well have been a shout, for the way it had taken him aback. _

_ Jon hadn’t really thought to question the lack of say he’d had in his daughter’s betrothal. He’d supposed that lords made these choices for their daughters all the time. The opinions of their wives likely mattered little. Why shouldn’t a queen do the same? Faced with his inability to provide a satisfactory response to such a simple question, however, his complacency had stood out in sharp, painful relief. _

_ “No, I didn’t even know she was planning this. She never discussed it with me.” _

_ There’d been no reason to be embarrassed – no judgment in her gaze when it had slanted towards him – and yet he’d still found it hard to meet her eyes. He’d shared all of himself with Sansa, once. His hopes, dreams, and fears. But that had been years ago and with the passing of time came new humiliations. A rich tapestry of regret woven out of so many strips of his flesh that he sometimes felt as raw as a man under a Bolton’s blade.  _

_ He’d made no secret of the prodigious limits imposed on the control he had over his own life. There would have been no point. With her here – keen mind and shrewd eyes – there was no hiding it. Admitting to having no more sway over his daughter’s life, though? Those words had tasted bitter, like ashes in his mouth.  _

_ Having sensed his discomfiture, Sansa had merely stroked a soothing hand down the line of his hip and continued, “If not you, then who might she have spoken to? Does she have any friends? Confidants?” _

_ “Tyrion perhaps,” he’d offered uncertainly, scrubbing a hand over his beard in thought. Tyrion was Daenerys’ Hand and though their mutual antipathy was about as opaque as the Myrish lace she loved so much, she did heed his advice on all matters of state. When it came to Alysanne, however, she kept her own counsel. He could not confidently predict what she would do when deliberating a matter that affected both. _

_ “She might have discussed the strategy of the match with him,” he’d elaborated, “if only to predict its impact on the Crown. Otherwise, there’s no one.” _

__

_ It hadn’t been an exaggeration. _

_ Daenerys never truly recovered from the loss of Missandei. Her grief worn as plainly on her face as the scars on his. While there was no love lost between them, he wasn’t made of stone. He understood how it felt to be utterly alone in a sea of people. Had recognized it in the deepening crease between her brows and the downward turn to the mouth he’d once thought so beautiful. _

_ In a different life, they might even have found solace in each other. Indeed, for a time after Alysanne’s birth, Daenerys had attempted it. She’d been kind and good and had sought his opinions on how to help those smallfolk still struggling in the aftermath of her conquest. She’d been all the things he’d blindly believed her to be when he’d first loved her. But no matter how hard she’d tried – how lovingly she’d sing to their daughter or how earnest the press of her hand against the curve of his jaw – he hadn’t been able to forget.  _

_ The honeyed smell of her hair only reminded him of the sickly sweet stench of rot and char, the whisper of her gauzy dresses of dragon wings. For every memory of sweet nothings whispered in dark corners that was brought to mind by the delicate timbre of her voice, the echo of war cries slithered sinisterly beneath. _

_ She made his heart beat out a feverish melody against his breastbone. His mind whispering the lyrics to its song.  _ Complicit _, it sang,_ complicit _._

_ Forgetting might have been preferable. Loving Daenerys had never been the hard part and it would have been so easy – a blessed relief – to pretend that there existed only the beginning and now, none of that troublesome middle. But he couldn’t; he didn’t deserve to. Even if he had succeeded in ignoring every shred of his soul that tried and tried and  _ tried _ to make him good – and he’d grown so practised at that, hadn’t he – he still wouldn’t have been able to gift her what was already in possession of another.  _

_ When her efforts had failed to bear fruit, she’d taken other lovers, but none of them kept her secrets. Not even her red priestesses were privy to the inner workings of her mind. _

_ There was no one left to trust. _

__

_ Sansa’s voice, like a song, had cut through the fog of memories best left forgotten. _

_ “Then we must put ourselves in her position. If you were to plan a match for the heir to the throne, who would you choose?” _

_ “I’m sure you can answer that better than I can.”  _

_ He might once have thought himself adept at that sort of thing, but time and failure had liberated him from that delusion. He’d felt her scoff – the sort reserved for when he was being difficult – before he’d heard it. The impatient puff of her breath skimming across his torso, cooling his still-heated skin. _

_ “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want your opinion.” _

_ “Aye, I know, but I’ve no skill for it.”  _

_ His protest had been gruff, but it only served to soften the lines of her face. Irritation melting into a confused sort of sadness that had bled into her voice. _

_ “You think so little of yourself?” _ _she’d asked. The pads of her long fingers had come to rest on the jut his chin, but the tenderness implied had felt only like pity. He’d canted his head back, stubbornly refusing her touch, and aimed his scowl up at the ceiling._

_ “Oh, come off it, Sansa! You know I was never good at this. I spent half my time as King in the North being scolded by you! Whenever you wanted advice you went to Littlefinger, not to me.” _

_ It really shouldn’t have shocked him to discover that he’d been holding on to that hurt for so long. After all, he’d always wanted her approval; always a bastard looking for scraps of validation to soothe the sting of his inescapable inadequacy. But once again, he’d understood too little a moment too late. Like a fool, he’d lain there, shocked to find that the stitches had been torn right out of those old wounds. _

_ Sansa had shown no patience for his sulking. She’d crawled into his lap – bedsheet and all – and had trapped his waist between her supple thighs, impossible to ignore. _

_ “Now you listen here, Jon Snow!” she’d commanded, a finger jabbed into his bare chest for emphasis, “I scolded you because you kept making decisions about the North and our home without me! I could have taken your crown if I had wanted it, but instead, I defended you because I knew you were capable. You  _ are _capable. I only ever wanted for us to be partners, but you were too lost in Robb’s shadow to see it.”_

_ Leaning forward, she’d brought them nose to nose, shielding their faces from anything that existed outside the curtain of her hair. _

_ “And if Littlefinger is so brilliant, then tell me, where is he now? Where are any of the supposed great minds of Westeros? Petyr. Cersei. Tywin. Varys. All dead. And Tyrion seems to wish he was. But you?” _

_ Her eyes had been ablaze then. Blue like ice and hot like fire. _

_ “You took back our home, fought the dead, and betrayed the most dangerous woman in all of Westeros. A woman with armies and a dragon. And you are still here! You are  _ alive _! How can you think that you’re not clever?”_

_ Taking advantage of his shock, she had dropped a quick kiss to his lips and had rolled off him, curling into his side once more. _

_ “So tell me, clever man, who would you choose?” _

__

Days later, the memory still brings colour to his cheeks. He wonders if Sansa knows how incredible it feels to be held so highly in her regard. 

Back during the days before the dead had advanced on Winterfell, living had become a chore. For the first time since Sansa had flown into his arms in the courtyard of Castle Black, he’d felt more wight than man. His limbs weren’t animated by desire, but by a sense of duty stronger even than death. The weather, the odds of survival, the pressure of managing the strategy of battles both on the field and within Winterfell’s walls – all of it had been knit into a suffocating blanket of grey, growing heavier by the minute, consuming everything in sight. Then one day, like a miracle, the sun had broken through the clouds. He’d stood outside for near an hour, eyes closed and face tilted up. The winds were still bitter, but in that small patch of sunlight, he’d felt warmed to the very marrow of his bones. 

It isn’t a romantic story like the kind that Sansa used to adore. He’s no poet – rarely has use for such pretty words – but it is the closest he will ever come to describing what it is like to be loved by her. One day he’ll tell her and he thinks she’ll cherish it all the same.

__

_ Bolstered by her confidence and after some consideration, he had hazarded an answer. _

_ “I would seek a match with Dorne. They have gold, influence throughout the realm, and dominate trade.”  _

_ Driven by a long-buried urge to show off, he’d even added, “A match between Targaryen and Martell would also help heal the resentment nurtured since my – since Rhaegar cast aside Elia for my mother.” _

_ Sansa had been all smiles and warm hands. _

_ “An excellent suggestion. In fact, the match seems so obvious that I find it hard to believe the possibility has not been explored. If it has, then that means a deal could not be struck. What do the Martells want that Daenerys couldn’t offer,” she’d mused while tracing abstract shapes in the hair trailing down his stomach. _

_ Jon had thought back to every meeting with the Dornish that he’d been a party to over the years. Daenerys and Prince Quentyn Martell met with some regularity, but each meeting was as uncomfortable as the first. Every word traded between them teetered perilously on the precipice of implying some serious offence. Anxiety would roll off Tyrion in waves. Arianne Martell was Daenerys’ master of whisperers and even then, there was always a collective holding of breath every time Daenerys gritted out the ‘Princess’ that came before ‘Arianne’.  _

_ It was no secret that the Dornish’s insistence on retaining a royal family was a source of great displeasure. Yet the Crown had desperately needed their resources and the Martells had recognized an opportunity. Years later, it was still the subject of constant heated debate. _

_ “Power. They resent having to kneel, but Daenerys is too proud to let her grasp on the realm slip more than it already has. She’s terrified that the other kingdoms will demand independence if she gives even an inch.” _

_ That had earned him another kiss, slower and longer than the first. His lessons as a boy would have been far more engaging if they’d been rewarded thusly. Although the thought of Maester Luwin, musty book smell and all, dolling out such a prize had made his nose wrinkle. _

_ “Then we must find a way to give it to them. And this from a man who thinks he cannot play the game,” she’d teased. _

_ She had made to move away, but he’d pulled her back and kissed her for as long as she would let him. The heat of the flames roaring in his breast had propelled his hands across the planes of her cool skin, reinvigorating the thirst he was beginning to think would never be slaked. _

_ Eventually, she had managed to drag him back to the task at hand. _

_ “I will handle Tyrion. Could you speak with Arianne? We need to confirm that an offer was made and that they declined.” _

He’d agreed at the time. Of course, he had. What wouldn’t he have granted to the woman stretched out next to him like a cat in sunlight? 

In the light of day, however, pulling secrets from Arianne Martell seems much more daunting. 

Jon quickly dries himself with a worn cloth and ties back his hair, feeling, oddly, like he’s readying for battle. Sansa’s faith in him is as heady and persuasive as the woman herself. The fervour with which she’d defended him from his insecurities makes him feel like he is capable of more than he’d ever thought possible. Still, he can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s been handed live steel before even attempting a wooden practice sword. 

He fetches his boots and takes a seat on the edge of his bed. He remembers how relieved he’d felt when they’d agreed that he should wait until she’d spoken with Tyrion to act. If it turned out that Tyrion knew more than they anticipated and was as forthcoming as they expected, there would be no need for Jon to dance around Arianne and risk arousing her suspicions. Yet, as the days had rolled on, that relief had drained away, little by little, leaving him frustrated and anxious.

He hadn’t anticipated such a long delay. He had doubted that Tyrion would be able to hold off for longer than a day, perhaps two. Already, it seemed like the man would throw Robin Arryn off the Traitor’s Walk if it meant a chance to leer at Sansa rather than listen to the master of laws’ regularly scheduled whingeing about the legal rights of Essosi migrants. Tyrion had been as eager as Jon had predicted, but they had both underestimated how quickly Sansa’s time would be commandeered by engagements of varying importance. 

An understandable miscalculation, given that he has no basis for comparison to know what visiting regents are actually meant to do when in a foreign kingdom. The closest he can come to a shared experience was travelling to Dragonstone as King in the North and, unless Sansa plans to relinquish her crown in exchange for dragonglass and a dangerous lover, he doubts he knows anything at all.

With no other options, Jon was left to wait. A task he performed both gracelessly and peevishly. He never has excelled at waiting; a wolf is not meant to be caged, after all. But this restlessness isn’t down to impatience alone. Truthfully, he misses her. He knows he’s being unreasonable, it’s only been four days since he last held her. Yet having her near again has loosed that wanting part of him that was only too willing to cast off the bonds of his marriage at her slightest encouragement. 

He runs a hand across his bedsheets, his mind painting a glorious picture of what it was like to have her between them. He’s become like a man possessed; greedy and needful, wanting all of her all the time and let the gods damn anyone else. He fists the sheets between his fingers, only to release them just as quickly. Erases any evidence of his action with the flat of his hand. Those kinds of lovelorn thoughts are the privilege of a man in a different situation. A man who isn’t constantly a hair’s breadth away from fucking everything up. A better man in a kinder world. 

Ghost’s red eyes blink open and the pitch of his stare borders on accusatory. Jon scowls back. He’d stolen him back from Sansa for companionship, not judgement. _It’s not all my fault_ , Jon feels the inexplicable urge to explain, _she’s just so persistently underfoot_. 

When he visited the training yards to spar with Jaime, there she was, head bent towards Brienne, discussing some serious matter. When he walked to the Tower of the Hand, there she was in the courtyard below, strolling arm in arm with her cousin Robin. The silk-spun copper of her hair seemed to catch his eye at every turn, making a mockery if his resolve.

So close, but never close enough to touch. 

Yesterday, he’d even offered to play messenger for Daenerys solely because he’d thought that it might offer a temporary escape from his relentless and alluring shadow. If Daenerys had thought his compliance strange, there had been no more indication then the slight quirk of her brow as she waved him off to go find Yara. Since her appointment to the small council as master of ships, Yara’s proven herself to be by far its least conventional member. She comes and goes as she pleases, missing council meetings without care and laughing in the face of Tyrion’s ire. Certainly not the kind of woman to beg for an audience with the Queen in the North. A respite, he’d hoped.

Sansa, however, had been determined to torture him. 

Before his knuckles had even made contact with Yara’s door, Sansa had come rushing through it. Dressed in some pale green confection and with her hair in a long plait over her shoulder, she had looked impossibly lovely. Distractingly so. It had taken him a moment to make out Yara’s hunched shoulders behind her. The other woman had been seated with her head bowed, staring at something cupped in the hands resting on her thighs without even sparing him so much as a glance. She’d obviously been in no mood to speak with him and even if he’d been completely oblivious, there’d been no mistaking the firmness with which Sansa had guided him away from Yara’s chambers. 

_ Why are you here,  _ he’d thought to ask, but she’d sensed the question before it had even left his mouth.

“You’ll think me silly,” she’d sighed, a shy smile playing on her lips. 

There was a time when that might have been true. When they were children made near strangers by the circumstances of their births and she was still young and innocent enough to cry while the minstrel sang of Florian and Jonquil, head filled with notions of valiant princes and tragic love. But Jon hadn’t thought of Sansa as silly in a very long time. 

As they had walked down the hall, she had proceeded to tell him how, before the pyre, she’d cut off a lock of Theon’s hair and nicked one of his rings. For years, she’d kept them, vowing to someday pass them on to Yara. Yara, who could use them to commit her brother’s body – or what was left of it – to the sea, the way the Ironborn prefer. He’d thought of Theon then. Pale and lifeless, with a Stark pin slipped neatly into the straps of his armour. He’d also thought of the crypts beneath Winterfell; of those few that remained empty even once rebuilt. The stony gaze of Robb’s statue as hollow as the tomb behind it. 

It wasn’t right, Sansa had admitted, to keep Theon from his family.

It was probably the least silly thing Jon had ever heard. 

If he hadn’t already been sufficiently sobered by her confession, her revelation that Tyrion had not proven helpful would have done the trick. Out in the open, she’d been unable to offer more, but he’d known what it meant. “I trust you,” was all she had to say, before slipping out of his grasp once again. The feeling of her hand on his arm had lingered long after he’d watched her disappear. 

Jon sighs again. It feels inexcusably indulgent to sit here dithering while, outside, the sun rises ever higher and the morning is already well underway. Still, it is difficult to will his feet to move when he knows that the next step he takes will be the one that sets him on an inexorable collision course with Arianne. 

Some careful questioning of the servants has taught him that she likes to visit the rookery in the early afternoon, preferring to send and receive her myriad secret messages herself. So that is where he plans to stumble across her. A perfect coincidence that is anything but. Past this chamber, in his solar, a scroll addressed to Bran is waiting to play its part. He’d felt beyond foolish writing it, hadn’t truly had anything to say, but at least now he has a pretense for running into her. 

There is always merit in having a plan and Jon likes to feel prepared, but he can’t help but wonder if he’s thought about this for too long. Arianne is just a woman. Not a dragon, not a wight, not a red witch. Neither her beauty nor her cunning make her any less human than the rest of them. Nevertheless, his treacherous body is thrumming like it anticipates clashing with a foe more formidable than the Night King. 

By the end of the day, he will have succeeded in garnering what he and Sansa need or he will have exposed them to a potential adversary with inscrutable motives. He tries to find some solace in the knowledge that, either way, at least he’ll _know_.

He steps into his solar, snatching up and quickly pocketing the scroll. It takes him until his hand is on the door latch to realize that he has no idea what to do or where to go _._ While he’s spent a great deal of time contemplating the outcome of his conversation with Arianne, he has given no such consideration to what he will do in the hours leading up to it. _More bloody waiting_. The notion practically sets his body to humming with the pent up need to just _do something._ That ruse of a letter currently burning a hole through his pocket isn’t helping matters either.

He pictures Sansa and the miniature of their son that she keeps hidden in the folds of her gown. Pictures Alysanne and tries to imagine the twinkling sound of her giggle.

He can do this for them. He just needs to calm his fraying nerves, is all. 

As if on cue, Ghost paws at the door and Jon smiles – his first true one in days – at the wonderful idea it sparks. With a newly lightened step, he directs Ghost to the godswood and goes to retrieve his daughter.

******

Alysanne stands in front of him, peering in turns at the entrance to the godswood and then over her shoulder at him with wide, inquisitive eyes. He fights a smile. He hasn’t told her what he plans, only that he has a surprise for her. One that he’s certain she’ll enjoy. 

“Ghost, to me,” he calls.

Ghost dutifully bounds out of the godswood towards them and skids to a stop a few feet away. Alysanne’s ever-present retinue of guards stiffen and he holds out a hand to them, suddenly aware that his daughter’s perceived safety no doubt outranks even his direct instructions. Thankfully, although the Unsullied stay alert, they do not move forward. Ghost observes Alysanne with a tilted head and she takes an instinctual step back, bumping into her father’s legs.

He's spent so many years by Ghost’s side that he’s forgotten how fearsome a beast he is. Even the daughter of the Mother of Dragons might find him daunting. He places a gentle hand on Alysanne’s head and the other on her shoulder. Leaning down slightly, he smoothes his hand down her hair.

“I’m sorry, sweetling. I didn’t mean to scare you. Sometimes I forget how big he is. I promise that Ghost is a friend, he won’t hurt you.”

Alysanne’s silver head swivels under his hand. She pulls her eyebrows together in a frown and the harsh morning sun makes her eyes glint like amethysts. He’s been on the receiving end of this look more times than he can count. By his mark, she’s only moments away from crossing her arms reprovingly.

“I am not scared,” she insists, voice high and sweet in a way that reminds him powerfully of Arya as a girl. “I am just startled.” She makes it sound like those two things could not be more different and that only a fool would think them the same.

He quickly tamps down the laughter bubbling up his throat. His daughter does not take kindly to being patronized, even when it is unintentional. Alysanne is a quiet and solemn girl, but she’s also quick-tempered and can be stubborn as a mule. Most would – and have – claimed that she takes after her father and his dour disposition. They aren’t wrong. He couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. It seems to him that half of parenthood is being exasperated by your child only to realize you are merely exasperated at yourself for being so keenly reflected in them. There is an underlying steeliness in her, however, that he cannot claim sole ownership of. Perhaps, it originates with her mother or perhaps it is all Stark, stemming whatever fuels Arya and Sansa. Come to think of it, he’s not sure he’s ever met a woman who wasn’t in possession of an iron will. Perhaps it is all Alysanne. 

“Apologies, Princess,” he says with mock regret, “for misjudging you so grievously.” 

His daughter pouts as she always does when he calls her that and it never fails to make him smile. It works like a charm, though, and, while still clearly irritated, her nervous energy ebbs somewhat.

“He’ll be very gentle with you, but be gentle with him too,” he cautions. 

Alysanne watches him out of the corner of her big doe eyes and assures him, “I am not a babe, father. I know _some_ things.” 

She says it with the kind of confidence only a child can muster. Had he sounded so full of bluster when he’d expressed the same sentiment what feels like a thousand years ago? By Sansa’s accounts, Robb shares the same willful streak. Gods, what a pair they would make. Not for the first time he imagines them all in Winterfell. Robb and Alysanne scampering around the courtyard as he and Sansa watch from the ramparts. Maybe even a babe in Sansa’s arms, with her eyes and a head of inky curls. A beautiful dream that will never come to pass. 

If he and Sansa can sidestep this crisis, he might eventually get to meet his son, but Alysanne will never know that she is part of a pair.

Jon releases her and she takes several careful steps towards Ghost. Alysanne has grown substantially in the last year, but she is small-boned like her mother and only comes up just past his waist. Ghost, on the other hand, easily clears his shoulders. As though sensing her trepidation, the great direwolf bows his head. Alysanne holds out a hand for him to sniff, just like she would with the kennel dogs, but Ghost instead licks stripe up her palm. She whirls back to Jon excitedly. Alysanne is not overly quick to smile, but when she does, it is a magnificent thing to behold. He would sweep her into his arms if she wasn’t so eager to wind hers around the direwolf’s neck. Even on tiptoe, they can’t make it all the way round, but she seems pleased nonetheless.

She turns back towards him, pale cheeks flushed and silk dress covered in white fur. Her septa will be none too pleased with him. Neither will Daenerys, who’d had the gown specially made to match her own, but it’s a chastising he’d endure again and again to see this joy on his daughter’s face. Before he can think more on it, Alysanne glances over his shoulder. In a conspiratorial tone, she whispers, “Isn’t that Queen Sansa?”

Jon does not need to look, because there Sansa is, all of sudden, her shoulder brushing against his as she comes to stand at his side. He wants to turn to her and greet her the way he would anyone else, but the shifting of chainmail is too loud behind him and he isn’t sure that his face won’t betray him. The Unsullied report back to Grey Worm and to Daenerys, by extension, and he has no desire for himself or Sansa to be the subject of their whispers. 

Sansa sweeps into a deep curtsy, her voluminous skirts sweeping against his leg and the flagstones beneath their feet. 

“Princess, Prince Consort, what a pleasure to run into you.”

Alysanne plasters on a mask-like smile and curtsies. Presumably, a flawless reproduction of what her septa has taught her. Ever the dutiful princess. Although the half-step back his daughter takes does not escape his attention, nor does he miss how tightly she clasps her hands in front of her. While she has always been an obedient child, Alysanne is also shy. She does her duty and greets lords and ladies as any princess should, but she’s never done so with ease. She and Sansa had been formally, though fleetingly, introduced at the welcome feast. There’d been little time for conversation, however, and they’d been seated at opposite ends of the table. Sansa is barely more than an imposing stranger. Jon thinks to help forge a bond between the two, but it is Sansa who speaks first.

“I can see that Ghost likes you very much, Princess. May I let you in on a secret?”

Alysanne nods cautiously, glossy curls bouncing. Sansa walks to Ghost’s other side and sinks a hand into the fur behind his remaining ear. His hind leg thumps enthusiastically in response to her scratching. 

A shiver travels up Jon’s spine and he ponders the strange wolf dreams that have kept him company in his darkest moments. Did he ever feel the warmth of her hand like this? 

“It’s his favourite,” Sansa whispers. She gestures for Alysanne to mimic her earlier actions and she happily complies.

His daughter’s eyes are positively sparkling and Ghost’s tongue lolls out of his mouth, clearly no less delighted by this turn of events. The moment Alysanne pulls her hand back, the direwolf turns his head and buts gently at her side until she resumes with a giggle.

“Your gown is very beautiful, Your Grace. Are the scales for your Tully heritage?” she asks timidly, pointing to one of Sansa’s long sleeves.

“Yes, very good! Can you guess what the snowflakes represent?”

“You are Queen Sansa of House Stark, but your sigil is a grey direwolf against a background of white and green. I... I do not believe I learned of such a sigil or any similar.”

Sansa nods encouragingly and hints, “Do you know the Stark motto?”

Alysanne scrunches her nose in thought.

“Winter is Coming,” she answers and her eyes light up. “Oh! Winter. Snow! Snowflakes for the North and for House Stark.”

“That is exactly right. Your tutors must be proud that you know your houses so well.”

Alysanne turns to him, cheeks rosy from Sansa’s praise. 

“Father, is that why Lord Lannister sometimes calls you ‘Snow’?”

He feels winded, all of a sudden. His daughter is staring at him earnestly, having not a clue that the answer to her question is more complicated than she can imagine. She knows nothing of bastards or Kings in the North. Nothing of the tender pain he feels whenever Tyrion calls him that, like pressing on a bruise. His messy history has no place in her peaceful, simple life. Or, at least, he intends to protect her from the burden of it for as long as possible. 

That’s what he prefers to tell himself, although it paints an incomplete picture. The reality is that it’s as much for his benefit as hers. Being her father is the greatest privilege. Like many of the roles he’s filed, it was one that was thrust upon him, but it’s the only one he’s ever truly relished. When she looks at him, she does not see a man who failed the North or sanctioned war crimes. Blind to his many, _many,_ failings, she sees only a man who loves and cares for her. He would do anything to keep from losing that. _Will_ do anything. Including plotting to break off her betrothal so that her life need not be tarnished by his flaws.

“Yes,” he lies, “I am of the North, much like its queen.”

He is too preoccupied with his daughter’s reaction to meet the gaze he feels burning into him. Would he find pride there? Or shame? _No,_ he decides, _she too understands what must be done to protect children from the world._ Alysanne, blissfully ignorant of her father’s uneasy thoughts, looks satisfied by his half-truth. In fact, she pays his reply little mind, flitting back to Sansa instead. She bends to more closely inspect the glimmering, beaded snowflakes on Sansa’s gown but is mindful not to touch them.

“They are so very pretty,” she breathes in awe.

“I could make you a dress like it if you wanted,” Sansa offers. Alysanne looks up at her, confusion evident on her face.

“But I’m not a Tully.”

“No, but you are a Stark.”

Oh, but does he look at Sansa then, but it is her turn to resolutely refuse to glance his way.

Alysanne gazes pleadingly at him, as though asking for permission. There’s no need, though. He doesn’t have it in him to deny her anything, but he supposes that it’s for the best that she hasn’t yet figured out that he is wrapped around her little finger. In her excitement, she fidgets from foot to foot, frantic in her impatience. He feigns some consideration before his eventual nod is met with the excited clap of her hands.

“Oh, that would be so lovely! Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you, Father.”

Alysanne grants Sansa one of her rare smiles. And what a smile it is. She’s grinning so wide that he can spot the gap left by her missing milk tooth.

He hears Sansa suck in a quiet breath. The casual observer would not find anything amiss, but Jon knows Sansa’s face well. Back when there hadn’t been any time for things as frivolous as looking glasses, he knew it better than his own. The arc of her cheekbones and the swell of her mouth form a map of familiar landscapes, the particulars of which he memorized in his youth. If he’d spent any less time gazing at her, he might have missed the way that her smile drops. It’s a fleeting thing – blink and you’d miss it – but he does catch it and also catches the added strain once the smile returns.

“It’s a promise,” she says. Her voice, which possesses a certain chilly detachment that had been absent before, seems to disagree. Back to the mask, to the game, but why now? Sansa sweeps into another curtsy and excuses herself, faultlessly polite. 

As she sets off towards the godswood with a determined step, Jon is left to speculate at what went wrong. He‘s found himself bewildered quite frequently of late. One would think he’d be more attuned to the feeling, but it still sits heavy in his gut. He’d been worried, initially, at the prospect of Sansa meeting his daughter. What if one disliked the other? Yet everything had gone so well. Or so he’d thought. 

_ You know nothing. _

He asks Alysanne to wait for him in her chambers and vows to return with tea and apple cakes. She’s surrounded by Unsullied who’d gladly give their lives for hers, but he still instructs her to take Ghost along.

“And if your mother or your septa has anything to say about it, you can just tell them to speak with me.” 

He watches her bite her lower lip, trying in vain to conceal the smile turning the corners of her mouth. Alysanne is so dutiful, but sometimes breaking the rules is good for the soul.

“Can Queen Sansa come? I want to show her my dresses.”

Honestly, after Sansa’s abrupt exit, he has no idea if she’ll even want to join them, but he’s already planning on going after her, so he agrees to ask. Pleased by the knowledge that she can look forward to a midday snack, Alysanne skips off with Ghost trailing behind.

******

It takes him some time to find Sansa. The Red Keep’s godswood is large enough that it’s easy to hide if so desired. Even so, Sansa’s not practiced enough to hide from him and – if the undisguised sound of her footfalls is anything to go by – she’s not trying to. He follows the tread of her slippered feet and the barely audible rasping of her gown against the shrubbery until he eventually discovers her in a patch of lavender. She casts her eyes towards him, red-rimmed and bluer than ever by contrast.

“What’s wrong?”

It sounds foolish – reductive, even – coming out of his mouth. So many things are wrong with the situation in which they find themselves. But he doesn’t know what else to say.

“She has your smile, did you know?” Her smile is half-hearted and watery. He watches her worry her palm with her thumb.

“Yes,” he answers because he does know. It is the only feature that she shares with him. The blood of Old Valyria has swallowed the rest up whole.

“I’ve been so selfish,” she says, dragging her gaze back to the dirt at her feet. Her reply clarifies nothing other than the shame she feels for admitting to it. Dappled light filters through the trees and illuminates her in such a way that she looks so young. The shape of the girl who thought she would be Joffrey’s queen. All pleading eyes and trembling lips, she looks wounded, fragile almost. Words she cast off years and years ago. 

Jon is a creature of wants and his desire to comfort her is just as strong as any other. He wants to hold her to his chest and murmur reassurances into her hair. Just taking her smooth hand in his would be enough to stem the tide, he thinks. He’s almost certain that no one followed them into the godswood and by the sound of it, they are alone. The courtyard behind them is a flurry of activity, however. This is a meeting in broad daylight, not a pre-dawn tryst or an alleyway embrace, and they have neither Ghost nor her Queensguard to keep them safe. The risk is too great. Already half-way to her he stops short, coming to stand just beyond her reach. He tries to keep his voice reassuring, but low enough that any hidden eavesdropper won’t be able to overhear.

“Sansa, please, help me to understand. What has happened?”

Sansa tips her head up, at last. Her hair has been swept back from her face today. The braids that wind around her direwolf band leave her with nothing to hide behind. No way to disguise the naked distress displayed there. She steps closer, but only close enough so that she can be heard clearly while speaking in a near whisper.

“I have thought of a hundred ways to bring you home. I’ve spent years dreaming about it. But in all that time, I have barely spared a thought for what you would leave behind,” she confesses as her eyes dance across his face, never landing in one place.

“I knew you had a daughter. I knew it from the very start. But for so long she was only words on parchment long-since burned and words are so dangerously easy to overlook. How could I not have realized that having you meant stealing from her?”

Her voice breaks and he must grip the bottom edge of his jerkin to keep from reaching for her. He’ll have to make do with words alone.

“You haven’t stolen me from anyone. You’re punishing yourself for something that you never did.”

“But I would have,” she gasps out. Her long fingers cover her mouth, as though the words are too terrible to hear.

“And even now, Jon. It’s unforgivable to say, I know, but if the choice was mine I still would. Gods, _Gods_ , she’s a _child_ and I would leave her here alone.”

Her fingers tremble against her lips, while his knuckles turn white with the force of his grip. She closes her eyes and the tears trapped between her pale lashes roll down her cheeks, shimmering when they catch the light.

“You won’t, because the decision isn’t yours to make. You once asked me to stop blaming myself for your choices and the same is true now. If I left, it would be because _I_ chose to do so. I am responsible. Moreover, Alysanne will never be alone. She’s surrounded by people who care for her.”

“Yes, well so was I! There was always someone. Cersei, Joffrey, the Kingsguard, my chambermaids. They were all supposed to care for me, but they only really cared about what I meant for them. You don’t know what it’s like to be a girl in this horrible place. To be fatherless. To be powerless.”

Sansa’s been right about many things, but she’s wrong about this. Jon knows powerlessness. He’d first felt it in the shadows of the Great Hall and in the futile longing to sit alongside his father and siblings. Then again during his time north of the Wall, where he’d spun webs of deceit in the name of survival. There’s a certain powerlessness in battle too. The weightlessness of knowing that your fate now rests in the hands of chance. Still, he knows that isn’t what she means. No matter the circumstances, it is always easier to cut across the grain of destiny with a sword in hand. There had always been some measure of control. Not like here, where he wakes wondering if today is the day that Daenerys will decide she’s had enough of him. It is true that he cannot know what it was like for Sansa or for any girl, but he’s been on his knees in front of a queen, his value reduced to a name and a claim, and he wonders if it is not so different.

Not that he’ll tell her so. He’s been selfish too, in his own way. So tangled in his past that he’s completely lost sight of the ways in which Sansa must be constantly reminded of hers.

“Sansa, whatever else Daenerys may be, she is a mother who loves her daughter. Alysanne would not suffer as you did.”

“But how can I live with myself knowing what I would accept in exchange for you? What I would allow? I told myself that I would never be like her, but what is this if not cruelty?”

Sansa does not need to name her fear for Jon to recognize it. Although Jon very much doubts that Cersei ever spent much time in the godswood of her castle, her presence can be felt now. Like a shroud, it settles over Sansa’s shoulders, making them curl inward under its weight. No matter how kind, compassionate, or just a ruler she might be, she will always fear following in the footsteps of her once tormenter. 

“Wanting to protect your family first does not make you cruel and it certainly does not make you anything like Cersei Lannister.”

__

_ You’d be surprised what you can learn to live with. _

_ That’s the worst part. _

Is what he does not say.

“Protect the pack, Jon. That is what Father warned us about. It is what I swore to do and she is a _Stark!_ ” 

Her eyes are wide, wet, endless pools of blue. She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, unconvinced. He would do anything to settle her mind and soothe her pain. He wipes a hand across his mouth, hoping she cannot see the way it shakes.

“If you cannot trust yourself, then at least trust that I have my child’s - my children’s - best interests at heart. It can, it _will_ , be different for them. Better than it was for us. We will find a way, I promise.”

It does not come out as confidently as he’d hoped.

******

Jon stares at the worn steps leading up to the rookery. He’d been loathe to leave Sansa and Alysanne and now, practising his polite smile as sweat sticks his hair to the back of his neck, he regrets it even more. He can’t disappoint Sansa though – certainly not after what he’d promised – so he climbs and climbs, practically crushing the letter to Bran in his clenched fist. 

As luck would have it, Arianne has not yet left and she turns to him, surprise writ across her features for only a moment before it is replaced with an unreadable smile. The rookery is stuffy at best and he’s even hotter now in the shade than he’d been under the blistering sun. You would not know it, however, to look at Arianne. Then again, she never seems to mind the heat, finding a home in it the way that he once did in the snow. Shirt plastered to his back and panting slightly to catch his breath, he feels completely at odds with her brightly coloured silks and her smooth, tanned skin, which remains untouched by the sheen of sweat that coats his.

“What an unexpected pleasure, Prince Aegon. I did not take you for a man disposed to correspondence,” she says while rising out of her shallow curtsy. As always with Arianne, he can’t tell if he should take her comment as observation or insult. He follows her gesture with a bow, doing his best to look civil and cordial and not at all like a man slicked with sweat and incensed by needless formalities that only waste everyone’s time.

“I write to my family frequently, but you must know that already given that you’ve surely reviewed every letter.”

Arianne smiles crookedly but does not correct him. So he isn’t wrong, then. She glances to the scroll clutched in his hand.

“All but this one, it seems.”

He could kick himself for offering up such an obvious focus for her scrutiny. He should know better than to let himself get careless over a desire to prove himself to her. Arianne cocks her head, a predatory interest shimmering behind her too-sharp eyes.

“Surely then you understand that I would be remiss in my duties if I did not ask, but you’ve already come all this way. Why don’t you summarize it for me? Save us both the trouble.”

Scrambling, he thinks of what Sansa might say and replies, “As you know, my cousin, Lord Stark, possesses great insight. I want to know his opinion on the match between Alysanne and Robb. It’s an inquiry I want to be sure he receives.”

He stretches out the last word meaningfully. He’s never suspected Arianne of purposefully waylaying his missives, but it’s a sensible motive for him to break the norm now. It will also be difficult for Arianne to catch him in a lie, where Bran’s concerned. Even this far south, they whisper about Bran and his mysterious powers, but most Southroners understand even less about them than he does.

“Do you have doubts?” Her voice is light as if it’s the most innocent question in the world. He focuses on keeping his reply equally nonchalant.

“I’d never doubt my wife’s wisdom – she loves our daughter more than anyone - but I do confess to some shock. It seems so sudden. It would be reassuring to know that Robb is the best choice. That there aren’t better options left unexplored. Bran would know.”

He’s dangled the bait as best he can and there’s nothing left to but wait to see if Arianne seizes it. She turns to a raven behind her and methodically ties her last scroll to its leg. 

“It is normal for fathers to worry about their daughters, but our Queen is wise and she has done her due diligence.”

She goes quiet, perhaps considering her words, but – shadowed as it is – Jon cannot see her face to know. 

“In fact, she even sought my aid to help explore a match with my nephew. Alas, it was not to be. The North is lucky to be considered for such an alliance.” She releases the raven into the air and they both watch it flap its dark wings, off to some far corner of the realm to do her bidding.

Pulling a ribbon from a shelf, she turns back to him and gestures to the scroll in his hand.

“May I? I mean no disrespect, but I am well practised and will have an easier time of it.”

Jon does not want her to read it. The scroll is addressed to Bran, but its contents will still reveal his deception. Yet refusing her will be sure to make her suspicious. He hands over the scroll; lets her pluck it from his sweaty palm. Arianne does not break the seal, as he’d feared, but merely attaches it to a raven without incident.

“I would be happy to answer any questions you might have about what our Queen was looking for in a match for the Princess. If it would help assuage your concerns,” she says slowly. For every word she speaks, there are a dozen others hidden underneath. Jon is already more tired by this conversation than by battle.

Arianne releases the final raven and walks towards him. Hands clasped casually behind her back, she continues, “Perhaps we might go for a walk sometime. I hear you’ve grown quite fond of the godswood of late.” 

His blood turns to ice. Desperately, he fights to keep his face and hands still, to keep from showing any sign of recognition. He scans her face for any trace of malice and finds none. He tells himself it’s nothing more than an offhand remark. She can’t know. _She can’t._

She continues, seemingly unaware of his upheaval, “It’s been a long time since you’ve been north and people like us are not meant to stray so far from our roots, I think. It must be a relief to find your heritage again after so long.”

None of it sounds like a threat, but he’s not fluent in the doublespeak that passes for conversation in King’s Landing. He thinks back to everything he’s ever been forced to absorb about politicking. For every mistake, there’d been something to learn. Surely, one of those hard-earned lessons can help him now. Finally, a memory comes to him and he hears Arya’s voice clear as day.

__

_ “You let the lords make you look the fool.” _

_ “This plan has to work! Defending it against the likes of Lord Glover is necessary, not foolish.” _

_ “That’s because you can’t see it like I do. He’s using your anger against you, to make you look weak. You’ve lost their trust and if you’re not careful, you’ll lose their respect too. We need them as much as your Dragon Queen.” _

_ “Gods, you sound just like Sansa.” _

_ “She’s right. You should listen to her.” _

_ “What am I supposed to do, Arya? Just sit in silence while he undermines our only plan for survival?” _

_ “Silence is a weapon, Jon. Subtler than Longclaw, but no less useful. The next time he comments, don’t jump at it. Just wait, take five deep breaths, and then answer. War is fought on more than battlefields, but here, like there, a man who gives himself away is already dead.” _

It was good advice and though he hadn’t heeded it then, he will now. Arianne picks up every word he drops like a precious jewel, to be tucked away and examined later. When they were gathering forces to take back Winterfell, Sansa had told him that you don’t need to pry secrets out by force, that people are happy enough to give them away if you let them. He didn’t have the patience to wait then, but he’s seen it in action since. The way that Arianne lets people talk and talk until they’ve given her something useful without even realizing they’ve done it. No matter how he answers, Arianne gains something and he’s not sure if she can be trusted yet. So he waits in silence until she is prompted to fill it.

“I wish that I could know that comfort. Family is so important, isn’t it?” In this, at least she seems sincere. Less like a cypher and more like a woman made of flesh and bone. Fundamentally, the same as him.

“Aye, it’s everything,” he agrees and she smiles. It’s less false than her first and he finally feels the tension begin to unspool from his limbs. She looks at him a long moment before speaking again.

“Well, Prince Aegon, it seems that we have more in common than I initially suspected. I shall call on you soon for that walk.”

When the sound of her heels clacking against the stone steps finally fades away, he lets himself sag against the rookery wall.


End file.
